A Bodyguard of Lies
by Colubrina
Summary: Voldemort has won, a new world order is in place, and while darkness reigns small pockets of resistance continue to battle for the light. Draco Malfoy has been sent by his commanding officer to Scotland to stamp some of those last efforts out but what will happen when he reconnects with Hermione Granger, resistance fighter? A collaboration with dulce de leche go. AU. Dark Dramione.
1. Prologue

Most things start with an idea, a tiny little spark of thought. This is just happens to be one of those things.

This work is brought to you as a collaborative effort by myself, **dulce de leche go**, and the fabulous **Colubrina.** I'm absolutely entranced by her dialogue and style of writing and, much to my excitement, she's enjoyed some of my stylings as well! Our bantering back and forth culminated in this: **A Bodyguard of Lies**. We would like to present to you this joint effort of writing as we tell a delightfully dark tale for one of our favorite pairings.

We sincerely hope you enjoy the chapters to come!

Much love,

~ Slik

Sometimes in life you get the opportunity to work with a person who you admire, and that work is play. This is one of those times. I hope you have as much fun reading it as we are having writing it.

Awkward Internet Hugs

~ Colubrina


	2. Chapter 1 - Draco Receives His Orders

**A BODYGUARD OF LIES**

"You're sending me where?" Draco Malfoy looked at his commanding officer in obvious displeasure.

All things considered, his response was reasonably calm for the mixture of emotions bristling in his gut: irritation, anger, concern, and as his thoughts drifted to the Malfoy matron, maybe just the teeniest, tiniest, little bitty bit of screaming, horrified panic.

"Scotland." The man leaned back in his chair and studied the blond. "You didn't exactly make a stellar showing in the war proper, and some people feel that you could use a little seasoning."

The last word was said with a strong hint of amusement that the blonde didn't care for much at all. It was a shame, seeing as how he'd been there for months now, under this man's direct command, and he'd grown to at least sort of like and tolerate him; not trust, though, never trust. Time here was funny. It had a way of passing quickly when every day was another menial task coupled with constant glances over your shoulder to make sure that even in this quaint and "civilized new world" someone wasn't preparing to slide a blade between your ribs. Of course, it was rarely as simple as blades and spells these days. Now, treachery came in the form of acid-laced words - sometimes acid-laced cups - cordial smiles, and calculating stares. He preferred it in the field as much as possible, away from the silver tongued political types that populated the halls, but this was shite and seedy and stank of at least half a dozen ulterior motives that wafted under his nostrils like a bad egg.

"I was seventeen bloody years old, and also going to school full time," Draco spit out. "Not exactly ideal conditions for making a 'stellar showing'."

"Well, now is your opportunity to prove your doubters wrong in a terrain you should be more than comfortable with." The man tapped his fingers on his desk in some irritation. "It's a rat's nest of insurrectionists up there, wielding guerrilla warfare from the safety of the mountains. Find a few nests of them, wipe them out, get the taxes flowing back unimpeded and you'll come back in a year or two as a welcome and trusted officer. Believe it or not, Malfoy, I'm doing you a favor here; I'm even sending some of your old school chums up with you so you've got people you can rely on."

The commander's patronizing and easy manner made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek in a hearty attempt to contain the venom just itching to leak through his teeth. "Who," Draco tried to control his furious glare.

"Nott and Zabini."

What?

Zabini. Blaise Zabini? Draco knew he'd been assigned to work in this area, even seen him on occasion in passing, though he had no idea he was in any kind of position to be sent out to help with this idiotic task. Truth be told, he hadn't really talked to the man since shortly after the...unpleasantness in the courtyard the day the Dark Lord declared his victory over the limp and dead-eyed body of The Boy Who Finally Met His Bloody Fucking End. Conversation had been strained between everyone after things calmed down a bit and they all made the transition under Lord Voldemort's rule, but, if he recalled correctly, Zabini had at least had the opportunity to keep his pansy hands clean. The Italian had somehow managed to wriggle his way out of being immediately sent out to the shiteholes to sweep away the smattering of witches and wizards who continued to foolishly have hope of overturning the new world order - unlike himself - and, last he knew, was in training on a career path to becoming one of the handful of strategy officers assisting behind the scenes in the developing world. He must have done well enough for himself to finally be sent out on real missions where the hypothetical strategies were very much no longer hypothetical.

And Nott...Theodore Nott. While they'd not spoken much in school at all, he remembered him to be quite the slimy individual, even for their house. Every group always had their outliers, their extremists, and, Nott was theirs. An opportunist if ever there was one, that git was the first to throw his schoolmates under the carriage and the last to be standing if ever he could help it. Always watching. Always listening. These attributes, in and of themselves, lent quite well to his current role in the play of things-

Draco's jaw clenched when the gears all clicked into place, his heated glare turning icy. "Nott's part of the intelligence service; you know it and I know it. I assume they're my watchers then. My handlers, keeping me in line?"

The man at the desk rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "We're on the same side, Malfoy. I'm trying to set you up for success but if you keep this shite up I might stop doing that. Do you _want_ to spend the next twenty years playing chew toy for your aunt? Because I can send you back to London, assign you as a guard in her household, if that's what you really want."

The thought of babysitting precious little crackpot fucking batshit insane Aunt Bella made a dollop of bile pool on the back of his tongue. "No," Draco muttered. "I'm not that crazy."

"Just, sit down then."

Draco sank, sullen, into a chair.

The commander folded his hands atop his desk, previous amusement and sarcasm all but gone. He turned a reasoning look on the younger man while he painted a very clear, very blunt picture of the situation at hand. "You're trouble, Malfoy. You're smart, maybe too smart, and you piss people off. You're also a damn good solider and I'd rather like to keep you from self-immolating before you get old enough to appreciate caution and politics because I think, long term, you're an asset. A valuable one. Get your arse to Scotland and show people what you're made of. Give Nott enough news to pass back to keep everyone happy and otherwise stay out of his way or, better yet, learn to control him; I agree, he's a viper, but for the next two years he's _your_ viper so figure out how to wield the man as a weapon instead of resenting him."

Draco nodded, slowly. Much as he hated to admit it, the words made sense, a lot of sense actually. 'Learn to control him.' It was rare for anyone to be so candid in this new age - that trust thing again - so either his commander pegged him for a fool's fool or he actually liked him enough to give him the barest hint of advice to keep him from being brought back home in a box. Neither of them were idiots, so. . .

"There's nothing to stop you from rising through the ranks except your own damn self-righteousness; learn to play dirty for real, my dear boy, or you will end up standing guard over Lady Bellatrix, at least until she loses it in your general direction and you don't duck fast enough."

He bit back the smirk at the offhanded but astute observation of both himself and his barmy aunt. He could do this. He was sure he'd done worse things, and more difficult ones, since the new government had been established, even if some idiots still demanded more proof that he was loyal and reliable and were sending him back to where all this hogwash began in the first place. He'd been told to be a killer and a killer was what he'd become. A damn good one, too.

Draco wasn't drunk on violence though, not like some of the Master's pets, not like Greyback. The token werewolf still reveled in violently killing whoever came in his path; the government then cleaned up his messes, which were legion, and told the people he'd destroyed another dangerous group of nonconformists or dissenters. No one was stupid enough to ask questions, not anymore, not even when it was obvious he was just mindlessly savage and destructive, the things the new world order was supposedly against. Being the Master's favorite had its privileges.

No, Draco didn't love chaos. He didn't dance and twirl in the blood of rebels like the wolf or Bellatrix. He had a colder, much more distanced, much more _effective_ approach. He simply had his assignment and he went and he did it.

He'd almost failed at his first task, nearly destroyed his family because he hadn't been able to bring himself to kill one man. He'd learned since then; you don't bring emotions to the field. Not ever. He'd been doing well, keeping everything locked up, bottled as much as possible and hidden behind walls upon walls upon walls in his day to day life. All that mattered was staying alive and keeping what was left of his family alive. Alive and out of the torturer's chamber.

"Shall I inform my Lady Mother to gather her household and start packing?" Draco asked with faux casualness.

The man snorted and shook his head. "Nice try, my friend. She stays here, enjoying the local hospitality as an honored guest."

"As a hostage to my success?" The walls were holding, if but just barely.

"If you want to frame it that way you certainly can. I prefer to think of her gracing our halls, bringing civility and conversation to my dinner table."

"She can bring civility and conversation to Scotland." It was a restrained growl at best.

"I don't think so." The man stood up and Draco followed suit. "You leave in three days. Say goodbye to whatever whores you've been enjoying, pack your things and look over the reports I'll have sent to your room."

Dismissed, Draco walked neatly out the door and then began to stalk down the halls of the appropriated castle, now an operations center as well as his home. Nott, the bastard, is leaning up against the corner outside his mother's suite waiting for him.

"So," the man straightened up. "I understand I'll be joining you, heading back to the land of our youth."

The blonde gave him a once over, his sneer locked away with the rest of his tumultuous feelings. The git would catch him at some point with his guard down, writing all over his face, but it wouldn't be today, he simply wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Indeed," Draco said, his tone clipped in annoyance.

"But your mother stays here." Nott's gaze was decidedly even and decidedly innocent...also decidedly full of shite.

"I'm sure," Draco smiled, "that she'd prefer the comforts of civilization to whatever we're likely to find waiting for us in the north." Every shiny white tooth he flashed Theo with that smile was a tally mark for the ways he would kill the man some day - it was the largest and brightest smile that had ever split his pale face.

Nott quirked a brow at his intensely jovial expression but said nothing of it, simply filing it away for a later date. "I understand it's gotten pretty brutal up there. I've heard interesting rumors about who's up there."

"Is brutal a problem for you?" Draco asked.

"I've heard it can be for you."

That fucking smug son of a... Draco cut his thoughts off and smiled again. "Well then," he drawled. "You heard wrong. Try to remember, Nott, that I'm still the youngest man to ever take the Mark. Unlike you, I took it before the Dark Lord won the final battle. Besides, with Potter out of the way who's likely to be up there who can really stand up to us? A bunch of peasants playing duck and run? Elderly school teachers?"

"I'll keep your assessment of the situation in mind." Dark eyes sparkled with equally dark amusement, rivaled only by the twinkle that was so often present in the old, now deceased, Headmaster.

"You do that." Draco put his hand on the door to his mother's suite. "I need to tell my Lady Mother I'll be leaving her for a few years so please excuse me. I should have the reports from the north in my own room by dinner. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to join me going over them?"

"I would," Nott nodded, "be delighted. I might have some insight that is missing from the official paperwork."

"As long as it's actual insight and not third rate propaganda and rumor."

Nott smiled, a slow and unpleasant expression. "You can rely on me, Malfoy, to be able to distinguish truth from fiction."

"Good." Draco raised his eyebrows and looks at the door he was resting his hand on. "Until later then."

Theo watched his old schoolmate, ever the pathetic little mama's boy that he was, enter the suite to break the news to fragile ol' mum. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. The man was easier to read than any given excerpt from _Babbitty Rabbitty_ and with his mother being...a guest...in the castle, he would be just as easily controlled. With a supple pawn like Draco Malfoy to wield, the sky was the limit.

"I look forward to it."

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N

"In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies." ~ Winston Churchill


	3. Chapter 2 - Hermione Hears Some News

Hermione had become an expert at being so dull no one saw her. She tied her hair, the only feature people tended to remember anyway, back into a braid and then put a scarf over the whole thing. She looked like a drudge.

Well, in all honesty she was a drudge. She was one of the endless parade of women who kept this castle functional while the noble and elite forces of the Dark Lord came and went, endlessly trying to subdue the local pockets of rebellion, endlessly failing. The duties dumped onto the female population of the castle - of the entire area really - were terribly, depressingly archaic. The men behaved like slovenly pig-men instead of the spoiled, yet cultured, Purebloods they were. They wielded heavy hands freely when they deemed a tongue too sharp or lips too loose...or hair too brown, skin too pale, eyes too open, quim too tight. Basically, they took what they wanted, when they wanted it for no other reason than that they wanted it. Almost none of them faced any kind of real repercussions for slapping 'peasants' around or for getting their 'needs met' without risking sullying a girl who might be the sister or daughter of someone important; and thus, within these dingy, dank, looming walls, they were all sent back centuries into a pitiful state of barbaric hedonism. It was within these walls that she hid.

What was the old adage? Ah, yes: _Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer_.

She also liked _revenge is a dish best served cold_. Hot war had failed her, failed them all. Cold war would have to suffice.

So she cleaned.

And she cooked.

She had also become an expert at listening and remembering things accurately. Her head was down, back bent, but her ears open while she took to chipping away rather diligently at a crusty something or other that had fused itself onto the bottom of a soldier's discarded plate - waste not, want not.

"A new commander," one of the cooks was saying. You couldn't trust that one, she was happy to collude with anyone and anything, but she was a reliable source of gossip thanks to her enthusiasm for sleeping with mid-level guards.

Fortunately, Hermione had thus far been spared the ignominy of buying her safety with sex. And may, she thought, it continue to remain so. A few stolen trysts in the village, that she permitted herself, a few nights of romantic lies. Daylight always brought the brutal clarity that, unless she somehow got possession of an illegal portkey and a bank account abroad, she was going to live and die in service to the harshest mistress imaginable: survival, with a side project of trying to bring down as many of these bastards as she could before her own ticket was punched.

"Another one? You'd think they'd learn. This place isn't tamable."

"This one's supposed to be young."

"Wonder if he's cute." A third cook, older than Hermione, though not by much, chimed in. She flashed the others a lewd, knowing smile and the weeping sore at the corner of her mouth leaked with the movement. This one was a favorite of many of the soldiers that roamed the castle; pity they were all too stupid, or too hard up for a bone, to care about what lay beneath the smuggled beauty creams she employed to hide away each of her oozing belt notches peppering her glamoured skin.

Hermione controlled the shudder that ran through her at the pervasive images and was glad when the older cook piped up again.

"That would be an improvement on the last one."

Hermione hefted the large bowl of scraps and leavings to take out to the pigs, making a note to tell the underground a new one was coming but not thinking anything of it until she hears the name.

"I guess it's the Malfoy boy – the one who killed Dumbledore. Maybe they think he can kill the rest of them now too."

Snape killed Dumbledore, Hermione thought to herself automatically. Then – this could be bad. So far no one had come through who'd actually known her and she'd been able to keep her head down. The posters with a photograph of her – Most Wanted – were old and outdated and no one would look at the worn woman she was today and connect her with the vibrant member of the golden trio, at least no one who didn't know her face.

Malfoy knew her face.

Shite. Shite shite shite shite shite shite shite shite shite.

The blood had drained from her face by now, and, if layers of filth and grime hadn't colored it with a morbid sort of rouge. even someone as dull as these leering cooks would have noticed something was amiss. Dirt, grime, sweat, even her feigned resignation, could only cover so much. Perhaps she could skirt around others knowing her, but Malfoy - the pompous little ferret-faced arse that had hounded her through every year of school - he would know her by her bloody silhouette alone from metres away. The idea of using magic to mask her appearance teased her, but she dashed it away just as quickly - she'd not come this far to die now. She still had her wand - though it was well and truly hidden - but she couldn't, wouldn't, risk its use for something as stupid as beauty charms. Voldemort's sad excuse for a government had adapted magical traces so anyone identified as a threat could be instantly identified the moment they used magic. In a magical world, fighting a magical war, magic had become the thing of last resort for the good guys.

The Trace was one of the reasons her last big group had been forced to disperse had scattered themselves throughout all Britain.

Neville, Luna, Seamus, Dean, they'd all been together before this, before whatever _this_ was. The day that the Weasleys took their final stand against that sadistic bastard was the last day she could remember feeling hope. That flame had been snuffed out when that lunatic had executed them, when she'd watched love and friendship slit from ear to ear, beheaded, left to rot in a courtyard as a warning: not even Purebloods could stand against the victorious Dark Lord and survive.

Luna saved them that day - saved her. The blonde rallied them, pulled them through the castle through shifting hallways and doors that Hermione had never even known existed; she was like a wood nymph guiding them through her forest home. They'd fled while they were still able, the screams echoing in their ears but they made it. They were free.

Or so they'd thought, anyway.

They'd hid at first, unsure of anyone's loyalties now that hope for equality had been annihilated. Quickly, more quickly than any of them could've imagined, whispers came on the wind, whispers of rising forces ready to fight the good fight. They'd followed that breeze, turned about and tracked it to its source until, before long, they were amassing an army. Things were going splendidly. That is...until the next stage of _his_ rule was implemented.

It was a simple thing really. To this day, she could recall that she'd just removed herself from the baths and was trying to expedite the drying of her hair with some hot air from her wand and in minutes - _seconds_ it seemed - Snatchers were swarming the streets. She supposed they called them "officers" now, but they were what they were.

That was their first hint that Voldemort was using The Trace. It wasn't tied to the wizard's age any more, and the first group he tested it on was the rebellion. She wasn't sure how he'd managed it and truly, if it hadn't have been so dastardly, Hermione would've thought the whole thing was brilliant. Instead, she tried not to think of it at all, because it reminded her of another day she'd fled, leaving behind the dead bodies of her friends, running past cooling corpses wearing only the towel on her back. She'd somehow made it here, going from house to house, people risking their lives to give her shoes, a shirt, some food. She didn't know who else had made it out; no one else had come here, no one who did had heard any word. For all she knew, she was the only one left. Harry dead. Ron dead. All of Dumbledore's Army dead or, she prayed sometimes, so deep in hiding no one would ever find them.

The nattering and cackling of the hens around their pots and cutting boards brought her sharply from her thoughts, but she steadied herself swiftly, head back in the game.

Breathe, Hermione. Just breathe. Perhaps it won't be that bad.

She risked asking a question. "Is anyone else coming up?"

The cook laughed. "She can talk." The other woman snorted and tossed another bunch of carrot tops onto her pile. "You thinking of trying to seduce someone high enough up the ranks to get out of the midden?"

The idea made her want to vomit. "Just curious."

The woman relented. "Someone named Zabini and someone named Nott."

"Huh." Hermione shrugged, more so at the second name than the first.

So, Zabini had survived. She wondered if she could poison him; she'd promised herself no petty vengeances but for Zabini, who apparently had had the nerve to go on living, for him she might make an exception. Her lips pursed and unwanted images of a red-headed near-sister barged their way into her skull, rattling things about in her chest that were better left undisturbed. The tremble now running through her hands was making clutching the fragrant bowl of scraps more difficult as the seconds ticked by and she'd decided that was all she could stomach of this gossip today.

"I'm done for the day, soon as I dump this lot." She looked at the other women. "I'm heading back to the village. Did any of you want anything more before I go?"

"Get out while the getting's good, I say," one of them huffed.

"Yeah, with a new one, out to prove himself, like as not, it'll be back to the old days of everything being tense for a bit."

Hermione nodded, but all she could think was, "Shite."

How was she supposed to stay undercover with Malfoy and Zabini roaming the castle?


	4. Chapter 3 - Arrival in Scotland

He couldn't really claim the mission has even started but Draco could already tell what a cock up this was going to be. And he'd actually trusted his bloody commanding officer when the man told him this was an opportunity. What a fool he was.

When he'd first stepped out of the village's not-so-bustling inn nestled near the winding access road to the hilltop keep he'd known he was fucked. The castle, Caisteal Colquhoun, seemed in good shape. The name meant "narrow something or other." The exact meaning had been included in his briefing on the situation but he hadn't bothered to remember it. Looking at the place now he suspected it had to do with how the outer walls framed the keep atop the narrow mound to the north. Yes, the castle itself seemed to be in reasonably good condition but the village was another matter.

Draco had looked around at the dilapidated buildings and wondered how many people were actually still living here. Most of the houses appeared to be abandoned and wrecked, with shutters hanging off windows and doors broken in. The ones closer to the village inn seemed a bit better, but not by much. Some dirty-faced children peeked out of windows, but no one came out, no one spoke to him or his men. He did manage to identify the local brothel; no matter what else fell to pieces in these war-ravaged, miserable little collections of hovels there was always a whorehouse and always a place to get smashed.

He wasn't a bloody novice at this, after all, and a quick inspection of the town's defenses had revealed that at some point there had been a wall surrounding the place but now that barrier was all but destroyed. The worst was the patch of land that faced the east, where the thick forest butted up to what remained of the wall. What remained wasn't much. Huge, hearty looking bricks had crumbled in on themselves and some remnants of wooden scaffolding lay charred and falling into the gap - efforts to make repairs hadn't gone well.

"Do the bloody rebels want to live in filth?" he muttered, kicking a chunk of rotted wood out of his way.

Blaise had looked at him. "Maybe they think this is better than life under us, mmm?"

"I can tell you," one of his men snorted, "before any of them get under me I'm going to make sure to throw them into a bath. I don't have any yen to get fleas."

"Lie down with dogs," another man ribbed him and they all laughed.

The entire trip to get here had been one screw up after another. If Draco were a superstitious man – which he wasn't – he'd have claimed this trip was cursed from the start.

The original plan had been to take a train to one of the New Order's stations in Scotland and then Floo the rest of the way since cross country Apparating had been deemed unsafe and potentially hazardous. Nice. Easy. Simple.

Of course nothing ever goes as planned.

The very day they were supposed to set out Draco's commander had received word that the station had been overthrown and completely demolished by an unusually organized group of rebels. The timing stunk, in more ways than one, but the loss of the station just solidified the determination on the part of the powers-that-be to crush the Scottish rabble.

The next idea had been to floo directly to the castle's main hearth. Unfortunately the Dark Lord was very...disorganized... about many things and maintaining the Floo Network was one of them; he simply couldn't be bothered with such trivial matters, not when there were women to rape and men to torture, or even women to torture and men to rape; he'd gotten more broad minded as time had passed.

Wizards and witches from the previous administration had to be located and 'encouraged' to rework the paths and access ports and a whole mess of other technical nonsense in order to create a direct and safe passage for Draco and his crew. The brand new-old employees worked as diligently as any sane person would when threatened with unnamed but clearly unpleasant 'consequences' if the issue wasn't resolved in a timely fashion and so the second logistical plan came into focus.

Then the second setback came in the form of another missive from Colquhon.

The rebels – the apparently incredibly well informed rebels – had managed an attack on the keep itself and the main casualty was the massive hearth in the Great Hall. While there were plenty of other fireplaces in the keep, that was the only one that had been connected to the Floo network. To set up brand new points of access was certainly possible but, without the connection already established, it would require one of those 'old government' folk to be on site to do it. So, that was out. No train. No flooing directly to the castle.

Onto Plan C: The Inn.

The inn, it turned out, had an old, long unused, connection to the Floo Network and the terrified older workers had managed to turn it back on. They'd neglected to tell the innkeeper, who almost had a heart attack when the first armed soldiers started appearing in his dining room, but who had quickly realized the wisdom of welcoming the newcomers. More on-site guards were fetched, a perimeter secured and then Draco's whole team had arrived. Shaky after the unpleasant country to county Floo travel, Draco nearly vomited up his lunch. It was as bad as his first side-along.

By evening they were all there, miserable, reluctant, sick after the iffy Floo connection, but successfully on site and Draco was examining the run down village with an increasing sense of dread.

No one on his team was untried and the men all looked around, stamping their feet in the Scottish cold, seeing with clear eyes how massively fucked they all were. Only Nott seemed pleased.

"A good challenge, eh Malfoy?" he chuckled.

Draco glared at the man's back, sure the bastard was already calculating how to report his failure and use it to slither into someone else's good graces.

"Well," Draco drawled, "I guess not having to worry about destroying the locale will simplify matters. We can just kill them all, burn the place to the ground and let death sort them out."

"That's the spirit," Nott looked back and smirked at him just as Draco's boot squished in something he didn't care to put a name to, picking it up with a grotesque sucking, squelching sound. He took another step into the road and grimaced at the filth. Blaise's lip turned up in disgust but Theo made no attempt to hide his chuckle while he stepped over the backed up mounds of sewage flooding more than just this side of the path. With deft feet and a near pirouette, the Intelligence Agent beckoned them on towards the castle.

If he had any doubts about it before, he was certain about it now: he was sent here to fail. Schooling his features to mask his wretched mood, Draco glared hard at the back of Nott's head - if it wouldn't ruin his image, he was sure the man would be skipping at this point. He'd be damned if he would give that sodding bastard the pleasure of reporting his failure; if he had to kill every person in a 20 mile radius he would, just to thwart Nott.

Blaise stayed at his side as they traveled out of the miserable village and up towards the castle, clearly taking in the terrain and filing tidbits in his memory banks for later.

As they neared the castle's outer gates, Blaise slowed to a stop, taking a long moment to pause at the low walls bordering either side of the access road. The Italian peered over the edge, silently calculating the drop-off.

"What is it?" Draco asked harshly.

Dark eyes shifted to the side to acknowledge the question, then back. "60 meters off either side about halfway." Blaise motioned back to the town then up the rest of the pathway to the looming walls ahead. "Graduated terrain. If I were to venture a guess it climbs to a good 75 or 80 once you get to the base of the gate."

"Yes," Theo piped up flatly, "It is on top of a hill. Hills are inclined to...incline, after all."

Something flashed in Blaise's eyes when he turned his attention to their third but it was gone before Draco was able to really catch it. Good. He wasn't the only one that didn't care for the cockroach.

"They are. If you point your nose forward, or even around you for a second instead of straight up in the air, you might also notice everything else, Mr. Intelligence." The man pointed with his next words. "To the south, narrow and winding, walled road, drop offs either side." He moved his finger to gesture to the west. "On the western side, high, climbing walls and more sheer drop offs from the top of the battlements to the forest below." Now he turned east. "And this way, another sheer drop off into a river with a fat set of mountains beyond that."

"And?" Nott asked evenly, eyes giving away nothing.

"This place is a fortress. Drops of most certain death at nearly every angle, the road is barely wide enough for two carriages to roll side by side, and even if it weren't, the mucked up city streets and the dense foliage on the sides without the river would greatly hinder any kind of sudden siege on the castle." Blaise looked at Theo, a long, hard kind of look, then he looked to Draco all too casually. "Funny that the rabble was able to get inside long enough to destroy the Grand Hearth don't you think?"

Without another word, Blaise resumed the forward trek up the steep grade where more soldiers awaited their arrival. Nott's dark eyes followed the man's form as it passed, allowing him to get a good lead on him before he eventually followed just as silently.

Draco watched the exchange, eyebrow raised. He may not have kept up with either of them between the end of the first battle and now but, evidently, this wasn't their first assignment together. If he knew anything about anything, there was certainly no camaraderie there.

Nott, well, Nott was a snake of the first order and he'd sooner cut off his own hand than trust the man. He's not surprised poncy Zabini doesn't like him. Blaise Zabini himself, however… Draco studied the back of the man as he wound his way up to the castle. Blaise might actually want them to succeed. Blaise might be an ally.

Now to tally up how much damage had been done to the keep itself when the Great Hearth had been destroyed. He found himself hoping the place still had running water but, the way his day has gone, he suspected that was not going to be the case.

. . . . . . . . . .

A disheveled, frazzled and generally horribly unkempt soldier – a boy, really – greeted Draco and his men when they passed through the front gates. The soldier's state confirmed Draco's lurking suspicion about the previous commander's capabilities, especially since he had a feeling this was after the boy had put himself together to be the welcoming committee.

He raised his eyebrows and asked, "Is this what you consider being 'in uniform' soldier?"

The boy gaped at him. "Maybe I'm wrong," Draco drawled. "I was assuming you were part of the local garrison but your expression suggests you're actually the village idiot."

"I, umm…"

"Stand up straight, you worthless piece of shit," Draco snapped at the child. He was tired, cold, still a little sick and not at all in the mood to tolerate much of anything. "Whatever's kept you from cleaning your arse up before you greet us shouldn't actually also keep you from having decent posture."

The boy pulled himself up to something that flirted with the idea of 'standing up straight' so Draco controlled his grimace tightly as he listened to the briefing on the keep and its status.

The boy explained the layout of the grounds in passing, stables near the front, the rest of the pens for livestock near the rear along with the smithy and fletcher.

Fletcher? Merlin, were they in the bloody dark ages again? His hopes for running water ebbed still further.

The keep itself was nothing spectacular, not that he could see very well right now, but it just seemed boxy, with dark, aged stone and mortar. The sun had gotten them to the gates but now that natural light was fading fast and they were left with eerie lights from the surrounding fires. Torches were bolted onto every side of the castle in sight as well as the protective walls surrounding it. The flickering flames burned angrily, hissing, cracking, and spitting. All the open flame still did absolutely nothing for chill; the miserable, damp bite of the air soaked in through their jackets.

They approached the keep's main doors at last and the rough looking boy stopped them, eying each in turn with a hesitant look.

By now entirely out of patience, Draco's scowl surfaced. "What now?"

The boy flinched. "A-ah... just... I just want to warn you... we haven't totally finished cleaning up after the... the.."

"Siege? Incompetence? Your fantastical cock up?" Theo offered each one pleasantly.

Even in the dark, Draco could see the soldier's color drop completely from his face. His Adam's apple bobbed visibly and the boy turned back to the guards on either side of the gate towers, motioning for them to open up and finally let the new crew inspect the damage.

Just… shite. As he looked over the inner courtyard, Draco began to feel downright ill.

It wasn't nerves. The battle was long past and, as grotesque as the scene before him was, his battle-hardened eyes had seen worse.

It was pretty bad, however.

A cluster of buildings, about three stories high, sat in the northeast corner. He assumed they were the main house and staff quarters. The leftmost building lay in ruins, fire damage visible even in the low light. Bodies were piled around a dried up fountain.

"How many were ours?" he asked.

"Huh?" the boy grunted.

"The bodies," Draco said with exaggerated patience. "How many of them are ours and how many of them the rebels?"

"I, uhh, I don't know," the boy whined.

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to one of his men. "Find out, get the numbers in front of my by sunup." The man nodded smartly. "I also want a list of current numbers, men in fighting trim, men who are injured." He paused. "Use your discretion for what constitutes 'fighting trim' and dispatch anyone not worth the medic's time." The man nodded again, a feral smile on his face.

Draco made a show of turning to look the other way. The western part of the courtyard had a collection of statues. There were angels, faeries, all matter of twee woodland creatures set around as if they were frolicking in the overgrown grass. Draco made a mental note that the grass needed to be cleared in a controlled burn; weeds attracted pests and the last thing they need is a fucking outbreak of some sort of pestilence.

Of course, the most striking things weren't the statues but the dead bodies. Someone, or multiple someones, in the rebel crew clearly had a twisted sense of humor because they'd draped soldier's bodies over the statues in some perverse, sexually explicit ways. At first glance, he'd have to call the man positioned over the satyr with the comically exaggerated male anatomy his favorite.

The smell of blood, the dead bodies, the way they were placed as a blatant "fuck you", no, those things didn't turn his stomach at all.

What was giving him an ulcer was first, that Nott's snide quip about incompetence was completely spot on, and, second, that he actually agreed with something the arse had said.

It might take him a while to forgive the locale garrison for that one.

"What..." Draco looked at one of his very own new idiots, a man who was quickly shrinking under his gaze. "the fuck... happened here?"

"Th-th-the rebels, sir...the-"

A laugh erupted from Blaise. It was the first real sign of emotion from the Italian and Draco turned to make sure he'd not suddenly lost his marbles because wouldn't that bloody well make this night perfect.

"They attacked the postern gate." He was still snickering and shaking his head. "Bleedin' Christ on a cracker... Draco, we should've brought more of our own. These men must need fucking guards to watch over them all and make sure they don't bite off their own tongues in their sleep!"

"What are you on about, mate?"

Blaise shot Nott a noxious glare and gestured to the rear of the keep. "There. See how the doors are hanging all cockeyed?" He looked at their nervous escort. "They busted down the back gate. And there, to the left of it, the same bit of blast marks and charring as on the building there." His eyes scanned over the narrow tower and the tight, half destroyed doorway; it couldn't have been wider than one man's shoulder width, weapons and soldiers weren't coming out of that one en masse, so... "What's that one? Rice? Grains?"

The boy fidgeted but nodded.

"So you mean to tell me," Draco snapped, displeasure dripping from every word, "We were delayed, had to make a country to country Floo trip that I'm pretty sure rearranged my innards, then had to trudge through that foul smelling pit of shite you people call a village, all because you idiots didn't know to protect your own arse?"

"We-ah-I-I-I-I didn-"

The blonde rolled his eyes and looked back at another one of his men. He didn't have the energy for this crap anymore. He gestured at the boy. "Kill him and put him on that pile with the rest. I'm done with this for tonight. If this is the crack team we're working with, I'm sure I don't want their help finding my fucking quarters."

A large, heavy-set guard stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear as he grabbed the boy who began kicking and screaming. The guard hauled the boy off towards the corpses and the hysterical noises got louder.

"Would you shut him up," Draco raised his voice enough to be heard and, immediately, the screaming stopped.

Draco stalked towards what remained of the buildings in the eastern portion of the courtyard, eager to find a bed, maybe a hot bath, maybe, if the gods were halfway fucking decent, clean sheets.

Theo's bland question halted Draco's departure. "Why would they bother?"

"What?" Draco turned to look at the man, almost irritated beyond belief. Did Theodore Nott know absolutely nothing about logistics?

Nott clarified by motioning to the damaged tower where a slow moving stream of filthy workers were squeezing in and out of the narrow door, relocating the usable supplies to a different storage area.

Blaise sneered and said what Draco was thinking. "The more you open your mouth, the more you cement my suspicion that you're just a pretty face, mate. How many rich politicians did you have to fuck to climb the ladder again, Nott? Maybe these blokes aren't the only ones welcoming attack at the rear-"

"It's my job to ask questions, Zabini," Theo interrupted coolly.

"And evidently you don't actually learn anything from them. Just write the reports and send them off like the good little rat you are?" Blaise snorted at the acidic look sent his way.

"Get the wad out of your collective knickers, ladies. I'm not sure why we apparently have to explain this to you, Nott, as we stand here in this blasted cold. Blaise, you have thirty seconds to explain what should be bloody well obvious to our esteemed colleague here." Draco scowled at them both and Blaise smirked as he turned again to Nott.

"I'll try to use small words for you, Nott. The rebels took out the transit station right before we were going to use it. They took out the Grand Floo at what should be one of the easiest outposts to defend, and, more, once they were in, they tried to take out the food stores. FOOD stores, you fucking moron. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'an army marches on its stomach'? These aren't rabble." Blaise looked back at the damaged grain tower, the broken building and the slovenly workers milling about with no apparent organization. "What we're facing, gentlemen, is a real resistance. Organized, with a reasonably decent understanding of strategy and, far, far worse," he nods at the rubble, "they got in, which means, I'm afraid, that there's a mole."

For the first time since they arrived, Draco's tired, irate expression morphed into a very sober, very serious one. Shite. Blaise is right.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise glared at the woman leading them to their suites. They'd gotten the men billeted down out in the barracks – lesson one of the battlefield: don't neglect your men – and now this trollop was, in theory, showing them their rooms. She seemed a lot more interested, though, in flirting with Theo Nott, which didn't speak well for either her intelligence or her likelihood of living to old age .

She also had a sore on the side of her mouth. He'd tipped his head towards it and raised his brows at Draco and the man had muttered, "Great. A potential syphilis outbreak. Now we're going to have to do a short-arm inspection on all the locals and get that nipped in the bud."

"I say," Blaise had murmured near the blond's ear, "we don't bother until she's bedded Nott." He watched the woman laugh too loudly at something the man said, placing a hand on his arm and not drawing back a nub; the possibility looked promising.

Draco Malfoy had sniggered.

Blaise hadn't seen his old school mate, other than in passing, in years but his reputation had gotten nasty. Unable to rise in the ranks because he couldn't play politics well, he was sent to one hot spot after another, usually by people who hoped he wouldn't make it back. He always did, of course, often leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. They had hoped to rid themselves of an unwanted pup and had instead ended up creating one of the most brutal and ruthless dogs at their disposal; just another testament to their short sighted visions and ignorance.

That the man clearly loathed Nott was encouraging.

Still, with his mother hostage down south you couldn't count on Draco to do anything that might jeopardize her. As much of a fucking disaster as this mission seemed, if history was any guide Malfoy would have the locals terrorized into shaping up by the end of his stay here.

Blaise watched the man's back as he strode down the hallway after Nott and that idiot woman; there were always strings you could pull, levers that would make a man jump the way you wanted him to. The only trick was to find out what they were. They were stationed here for two years; Blaise was confident by the end of that time he'd know Malfoy's.

He glanced down one dark hallway and stopped. Some nameless castle drudge was standing in the shadows watching them pass. That felt _wrong_; most of the staff were out trying to salvage what was left of the stores and the others were smart enough to stay out of sight of the new officers. Blaise bent down to fiddle with his shoe and watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. She didn't seem to notice him or his subtle observation; her attention was focused ahead on his companions. Curly hair - frizzy, bushy curly hair - was escaping from a sloppy braid and hanging in the woman's face but, more, her posture was far too tense. Her balance shifted ever so slightly forward, her hands hovering apparently casually at her sides but he knew better. The flex of her fingers made her right hand twitch at her hip, where something should have been but clearly wasn't, not anymore, not unless she was hiding it somehow in those dirty skirts. She stood like a tried soldier, ready to react to any threat, making a quick assessment of her new adversaries.

Interesting.

Don't be so sloppy, Granger, he thought to himself. You're going to get yourself killed.

Blaise made a show of clearing his throat, the sound startling the dark shadow into appropriate attentiveness. Her kerchiefed head ticked in his direction and a dainty hand clenched and trembled, but he didn't look, didn't show any sign that he'd seen her. He simply finished pretending to tie his boot, stood up, and hurried down the hall after Nott and Malfoy.

. . . . . . . . . .

_A/N – Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and/or share their thoughts on this story, especially GTH, Gullb3rg, Mistress Cinder, LadiePhoenix007, Grovek26, Honoria Granger, LB123. _


	5. Chapter 4 - Getting Settled

_**Hermione**_

Bugger. Bugger bugger _bugger_ bloody buggering _fuck_.

They _were_ here. Of course she knew they would be. The gossips, while mostly idiots, told partial fabrications most of the time, but they were always based in at least some kind of truth. The news about who was coming, what they looked like - the assessment of Malfoy as 'hot' had made her feel especially queasy – and what they were here for had consistently featured the same three names so she'd known it would be them; she'd just been hoping that none of it was true.

Now she'd seen them and could no longer pretend.

Hermione studied them as they walked past her spot in the shadows, pressing herself as close to the wall as she could without compromising her mobility. They seemed to be occupied with that disgusting hearth witch practically slobbering over them; maybe she'd pass along whatever was causing her sores and they'd all drop dead. A girl could always dream. At least the whore was keeping their attention so she could have a safe look at what the years had done to her former schoolmates.

She finally remembered Nott when she saw him cross the hall. He'd always been the quiet type, put together, reasonably smart, apparently focused - though he did shoot her strange looks on occasion - but overall he'd seemed rather unremarkable back then. Now, while he was taller, his dark hair was unchanged and he was still nearly as wiry as he'd been then.

That was curious in and of itself.

He didn't look like a soldier or a politician. Too slim for the former, not nearly soft enough for the latter. She'd hadn't managed to find out what it was he did, only that his rank was high enough to stay out of his way. Looking like that, and walking with quiet, cat-like grace next to the bloody terror her blond nemesis had clearly become, well, he'd either used what hung between his legs or what was between his ears to climb the ranks; she suspected the latter and those were perhaps the most dangerous kinds of folk - she would know.

Malfoy was clearly a soldier. A ferocious reputation had preceded him and, by the looks of the man it wasn't exaggerated. He'd filled out since she'd seen him last, cowering next to his parents in the school courtyard; there was a hardness to his features, as well as an aura of authority, that worried her. She'd never thought much of the boy; he'd been, in her opinion, nothing but a sniveling bully. That had clearly changed; she found herself if not exactly scared then at least very wary of the man he'd become.

An obnoxious, grating noise startled her and her eyes snapped to the third of their party. Initially scared and mortified at the prospect that she'd been caught spying, her caution started to burn away the second her gaze settled on Blaise Zabini.

Of course. _Zabini_.

Her mounting rage was blinding her to her original purpose.

He knelt down, back partially angled to the hall she hid in, while he fucked with his laces and made these disgusting snorting gurgles, trying to free some particularly deeply lodged phlegm.

It could be quick.

It could be silent.

There was a shiv hidden beneath her bodice...

A slice across the throat.

A stab in the spine.

There...he was just right there. She could finally fulfill her promise because he was right-_fucking_-there.

Her hand twitched and she clung, not to the remarkable inner strength that dragged her along each and every day in this pathetic hellhole, but to the temptation of the sweetest, most magnificent vengeance.

_For you, Zabini, I'll make the wait worth it._

Hermione bit back the growl at his nearness and clenched her fists, forcing her feet to move slowly, silently, further into the shadows until he finished his lollygagging and moved to join the others on the way to their bedchambers.

By the time the last of the footsteps had faded into the distance, she had calmed herself just enough to formulate a game plan; her thoughts were racing.

_Get back to the ground floor, take the passage out, meet at the rendezvous-_

"YOU!"

_SHITE! _She'd been found! Hermione's first reaction was to go for her weapon, but she employed more care than she'd been practicing seconds ago. Her head ducked down, hair falling forward around her dirty face and she donned the subservient mask that sickened her every time she wore it.

"YOU THERE! GIRL!" the gruff brogue of one of the elder caretakers croaked from one of the adjoining servant halls.

Hermione spared a peek up from beneath her lashes and caught sight of the old, fat witch waddling her way with a set of linens wadded in her arms.

Fuck. Not _her_.

"Y-y-yes Mrs. Niven?" The timid words tumbled out with practiced ease and she shrank into herself as the cranky old hag neared.

"Take these," Mrs. Niven began, shoving the most recently laundered bedding they had into the younger witch's arms, "to the room at the end of the far hall! Hurry your arse! That bloody idiot, Coira was supposed to get these on the bed before the men got in but she's gone and buggered off to fuckall if I know!"

She grunted, the pile of linens much heavier than she'd expected. A steadily building panic was overtaking her earlier rage and she swallowed down her nerves. "W-where, Mrs. Niven?" This time the stammer was just a hair more real.

The old witch rolled her eyes and threw up her arms in exasperation. She grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and pulled, pushed, then shoved her in the same general direction that Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott had just gone. "The King's Suite you stupid girl! Merlin above, I'm going to have to beg for some new girls since the diseases have taken all of your bloody brains. Now GO!"

Hermione stumbled forward with another push from the ornery woman. She caught herself and then she was slowly padding her way toward the rooms. The hallway wasn't long, in fact, it was terrifyingly short when she considered what lay at the end.

She'd just been assigned to Draco Malfoy's room.

Shite.

She was a dead woman.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**Theo**_

"I hope it's hot enough for you."

Theo straightened from his spot at his private hearth, quirking an eyebrow at the woman he'd dubbed 'mouth sore wench' still lingering in his room, back pressed to his chamber doors. "It's sufficient," he said evenly.

The witch wasn't bothered by his roving eyes, undoubtedly weighing and measuring her assets – they all did, after all. "I can have her bring up more wood if you'd like." She sauntered near the fireplace and him, running long, ruddy nails over his chest. Her eyes flicked to the younger servant girl who was hurriedly tidying up after Nott had demanded different chambers than the ones initially offered to him. "I could keep you warm in the meantime."

He actually had to suppress his shudder.

She had been working at him since they'd arrived and he was doing his damnedest to suppress the urge to just cut her tongue out and send her on her merry way. She'd mentioned she was one of the main cooks and, as he suspected there were few alternatives, it would be better if he didn't brass off the bint that fixed his food, especially when she could very easily just..._ooze_ something unpleasant into his meal. The fact that she was still handling food was horrifying; apparently the incompetence wasn't restricted to the battlefield. No bleedin' wonder this place was a wreck. He would need to get on having some more of the staff properly trained in meal preparation immediately, especially if what Zabini was mouthing off about earlier was true. That bloody prick... making a spectacle of him.

Patience, Nott thought to himself. Be patient until you're done with him and then you can dispose of him. Two months - three tops - and he can be made one with his bloody 'drop offs', the blighter.

He shivered with delight at the idea; the whore mistook it for cold and took that as an opportunity to get closer.

"Cold, sweet pea?" The woman ran both palms up over his chest to loop around his neck, pressing as much of herself against Nott as she could.

Maybe Zabini could be pressed into food service.

"Just a chill, pet," he said sweetly, coaxing her arms back off of him as gingerly as possible. "The fire is excellent, truly. I could do for a soak, though."

"Of course," she purred, "I can arrange for a basin big enough for two if you'd like-"

_Bloody hell. _Theo eyed the woman with distaste. She was much too experienced for his liking, even leaving that bloody sore out of the equation. He liked his women a little less… used.

"You're too kind, of course." Theo flashed a brilliant smile, which she returned; he did his best not to look at that bloody _sore_. He pulled her hands towards his mouth, making as though to kiss the knuckles, and instead puckering his lips and smacking at the air centimeters away from the skin with a playfully charming grin. "I'm afraid it has just been a long and... grueling evening, love. Just a quick soak and bed for me."

She pouted, somehow adding a saucy little swagger to it. "Not even dinner, Master Nott?"

"I really must-" his voice was already growing irritated at her persistence when she interrupted.

"Oh but _please,_ Master Nott." She hummed his title in a way she was sure was seductive and couldn't have made his prick any limper if they'd both tried. "It's tradition."

"Tradition?" he questioned grimly, his facade wavering and his decision to not kill her quickly being reconsidered.

"Yes," she affirmed, finally – _blessedly_ – moving away from him again. "I suppose I actually should be heading back down to help." That pout again. And moon eyes. _Ugh_. "We host dinner every evening about 7 for the officers unlucky enough to be stuck in this operation. It's a bit later than typical tonight, but we was trying to make sure you would be able to attend, 'specially with the delay and all."

Heading back down? Yes. Anything. Yes. Just get away from me.

"Of course," Nott smile once again, "I'll let the others know as well. You run along then. We wouldn't want to keep all of our other gentlemen waiting."

The mouth-sore whore grinned devilishly. "We should be set to serve on the hour, _Master Nott_. And I will be _so_ pleased to serve you."

Theo nodded and waved at her departure, the smile dropping from his face immediately upon the door closing.

"I-is there anything else you need from me, sir?"

He turned; the other servant girl had finished turning down his bed and lugging his trunk to the corner. He preferred to unpack his own things, keep prying little eyes away from his secrets. In stark contrast to the walking carrion that had just left, this little bird looked fresh. He could practically smell the innocence wafting off her. She was afraid of him, not afraid enough, of course. Innocence was naïve like that; it was one reason he enjoyed despoiling it – would likely enjoy despoiling her - so much.

"How old are you?" he asked without preamble.

"Seventeen, sir," the girl stammered, confused, eyes shooting up from their downcast position.

Nott looked her up and down carefully, beginning a slow and predatory circle around her. She wasn't clean, per se, but she was much cleaner than the vast majority of the servants – not horrible looking, either.

"You're new here." It wasn't a question.

"Y-yes… sir." She answered anyway, eyes resuming their downward stare.

The girl's shoulder and back muscles bunched when he stopped his stalking and ended at her back. Her tiny frame shook more violently the longer that he stood there in silence, watching. Oh, that was lovely. Theo leaned in at last and inhaled the scent of her hair, coming back with a smell tinged only by the natural oils clinging to her hair and skin and not yet the heinous stench of the castle that crept into its every crevice.

Yes, definitely still fresh.

"Then yes. There absolutely is something else you can do for me."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**Blaise**_

Blaise slammed the door and surveyed his room. It wasn't bad; someone had already been up here and left his things. There was a bed against the back wall as well as a couch at its foot. The fire was lit. A good sized desk sat near a window, placed for optimal light, with an actual oil lamp; that was a pleasant surprise. The girl cowering against the far wall was both less pleasant and less of a surprise.

"Have you been assigned to me or did you just show up?" he asked with thinly veiled annoyance, used to women trying to better their miserable post-war lot by finding high status protectors. If that was her game, she was sure as shite barking up the wrong tree.

"Assigned," she choked out, almost stammering. "I got the room cleaned up, got the fire lit."

Her hands were wringing the fabric of her filthy skirt and he didn't have to wonder long about the last time she'd bathed; the hot stench of sour musk and other things spoke volumes by itself. He walked over and grabbed her chin with one hand, inspected her face as best he could in the dim light. No obvious sores, that was good, though it was hard to tell under all the dirt.

"No running water, I take it?" he muttered, spotting a chamber pot in the corner. A fucking chamber pot. _This_ was what victory brought them, apparently.

"No sir," she looked like she was afraid he was going to hold her personally responsible for that; based on the faded bruises on one side of her face it wasn't an unreasonable fear. "The piping was all destroyed over three years ago. I can bring up hot water from the kitchens; we've rigged a pulley system-"

Her explanation rambled on, growing more and more frantic the longer he gripped her chin. He let her go a little too quickly when she started to babble, suddenly aware of himself. He shifted his attention to the bed and poked at it. "Are the sheets clean?"

"Yes, sir," she answered meekly.

He sighed. "Look, get me a bath. Hot water, soap. Then, when I'm done, get yourself cleaned up too. And that outfit-" He waved a hand at it, lip curled in displeasure. "-wash it, burn it, I don't care. But don't show up in my room that dirty again."

She was stammering out another one of those damned "yes sirs" when he cut her off.

"We may be reduced to living like it's 1400, but I'd still prefer to avoid the assorted bits of nastiness that breed in filth. I want this room clean, I want my things clean, I want _you_ clean. Tell whoever your supervisor is that, for the duration of my stay here, you belong to me."

She paled.

He rolled his eyes. Oh Christ. He supposed he should be grateful this one wasn't an opportunist and he wouldn't be throwing her out of his bed every two days. That got old, and fast. "I don't want a fuck toy, you stupid bint. I want you to spend your time getting this place scrubbed and keeping my things immaculate and sure as shite whatever else you do is going to get in the way of that, so you don't do it anymore, got it?"

She nodded. "I'll... I'll go get the water, sir."

"You do that." He paused, then added. "I don't want to have to look at you bruised, either. Pass the word along that I'll be most displeased if you show up beaten." He didn't bother to watch her leave but heard the door shut behind her.

He pulled open his ruck sack and started taking out the castle schematics he'd 'borrowed' from headquarters. This place was a clusterfuck. He traced his fingers along the lines marking the corridors; they'd come in there, walked along that hallway there, and Granger had been there. He rubbed a hand over his chin and cheeks, aggravating the slow growing stubble while he pondered the layout of the floor.

What was back that way? Where had she come from? Where had she slunk back to after he saw her?

He needed to walk around, start labeling his maps with locally relevant information. Knowledge, _that_ was power.

He had pulled off his boots and confirmed that the linens were, indeed, clean, when the girl showed back up, hauling two buckets of water for the tub. With a pained sigh he moved it so it was in front of the fire before she dumped the water in.

"Do you have anything else to wear?" he picked at her dress with his thumb and one finger. The fabric might have been blue, once. It wasn't any more, it was just a dulled shadow of a time past, like everything else seemed to be these days. It was just as well, blue always reminded him of... another life.

She shook her head, mutely and he swore. "Then, after you bathe your stinking body, wash the dress and hang it to dry here. You can stay on the couch or something until it dries. NOT my bed, _never_ my bed." The last was said so harshly she flinched. He ignored it, threw an extra blanket that had been folded on his bed to her feet and, at her confused look he added, "You wanted to sit around, naked and shivering, while your dress dried?"

"I... no... thank you," she whispered and he rolled his eyes. "Go get more water, you idiot. Two buckets aren't going to cut it."

She was stopped at the door by Nott and the cool, satisfied smirk plastered to his arrogant mug. "I see you got the ugly one, Zabini," the man said.

"I'm interested in her efficiency, Nott, not her face. What do you want?"

"You know what Ovid said about ugly girls, right?"

Blaise rolled his eyes, casually packing the purloined maps away again from Nott's sight while sighing dramatically at the man. "Why do I have the miserable premonition you're going to tell me?"

"You should fuck them from behind," the man leaned up against the wall and leered at the girl, who shrank back under his gaze.

"I'll keep that in mind; if I ever get the urge to ram your arse I'll make sure your face is being ground into the mud while I'm doing it," Zabini said pleasantly.

The girl was looking from one to the other and Blaise watched her realize that, whatever else had gone wrong in her miserable life, she'd gotten truly lucky in whose room she'd been assigned to. "I want to wash, Nott. Get out of the girl's way so she can go get more water like I asked her to."

"That's your problem. Zabini. You're still asking." His dark eyes glittered dangerously, still focused on the miserable little creature in her rags.

Blaise saw the man's hand coming up to play at a strand of the girl's stringy locks and was there in a few strides, catching his wrist and stilling the movement. "I don't think the chit is under any delusion she has a choice." He glared. "Now get out of her way and tell me why the fuck you're bothering me."

A slow smile curled his lips and Nott stepped to the side; the girl, clutching her two buckets like a lifeline, fled.

"Leave her alone," Blaise said, half dropping, half shoving the man's wrist from his grip as Theo watched the girl leave with an eerie sort of calm.

Nott raised his eyebrows in an obvious question.

"You tend to break your toys and I don't want to get her trained up only to have to start again with someone new. So, like I said, leave her alone."

"Whatever," the man waved his hand in the air in dismissal, though he seemed oddly pleased with the whole exchange. "You got the ugly one," he said again smugly and looked around, "and the smaller room."

"I'll live," Blaise bit out. "Now, for the last time, what do you want?"

"Apparently it's traditional for the local officers to have dinner in the hall every night. I've been tasked to ensure we continue that." Nott straightened back up and smiled. "So, I'll see you downstairs in 30 minutes."

"Great. Will do. Now get out." Blaise watched Nott smirk as he left and wondered what was so important about having dinner together in public. Anything that made Nott happy couldn't be good.

"Where the _fuck_ is that stupid girl with my water," he muttered as he sat down and pulled his socks off.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**Draco**_

Draco Malfoy sat at the desk in his chamber, looking over the lists of men under his command at this godforsaken shitehole. They'd given him the 'King's Suite'. King of _what_ was what he wondered. Refuse? Filth? Putrescence? If this was the nicest room in the castle, they might as well throw any remaining expectations they had clear out the window. They hadn't even had his bloody room ready when they arrived and the fat old woman had immediately begun her cowering.

The lack of backbone in any of these people, regardless of their station, sickened him.

Cowardice got you killed, got people you cared about killed. There was no room for it in places like this, not if you had any hope for survival. You had to be prepared to do anything to ensure your survival – anything. It was no wonder at all that this place was a veritable train of corpses.

The drudge entered at last with his new bedding, mumbling some sort of apology and immediately setting herself on her task.

About fucking time, he thought.

He didn't look up at first. These browbeaten women scurried about the whole castle and he'd already almost stopped seeing them. When he did look up he blinked, first once, then twice. Her gown was disgusting, just like the rest of them, but that's not what caught his eye.

She glided around the mattress and frame with a grace that went deeper than propriety or fear, something so practiced that the muscles remembered the steps even if the mind didn't – like a kata. Her back was never once turned his way and neither did her legs or hands ever fumble or cross each other in a way that would stifle their use. She moved with purpose, each step on the balls of her feet. Her back and her covered head were bent but any slouch to her spine was entirely absent – unlike every other piece of useless crap in the entirety of this stone death trap.

There was something different about this one.

The woman snapped a corner of one of his sheets a tad too roughly around the mattress and the sudden gust blew back the kinked and crusted curls of dusky hair from her face. She was a dead ringer for...

_No bloody way._

He narrowed his eyes and rose from his seat, approached the girl as she silently switched to gathering up the laundry he'd left on the floor. Yanking the kerchief off her head and viciously pulling the braid out, he got a good look and began to laugh.

"You've seen better days, Granger." She tensed. She'd been so careful – at least she _thought_ she'd been so careful – she could still make it out if she was convincing. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered. "I'm just here to get the..."

"You've smelled better too," he made an elaborate show of sniffing near her and making a face.

"I don't think I..." she started to edge towards the door and he pulled out his wand. She froze.

"Don't move." The words lacked any overt hint of a threat but this woman, this twin of Hermione Granger, hadn't survived since the war without learning a sense of caution.

He stood right next to her, inside anyone's personal space bubble, noting not only how she cowered away but that the movement was delayed, too practiced to be genuine. _Tsk, tsk, tsk, your roots are showing._ Draco used his wand to pull her hair, that bushy, unmistakable hair, away from her neck, then traced his wand down her arm. She inhaled sharply but didn't say anything, clever woman that she was, she knew it was over. When he reached her forearm a quick incantation split the fabric beneath his tracing wand and he grabbed her wrist with his left hand and turned her arm towards him. 'Mudblood.'

_Granger._

"Well, well, well," he smirked. "Care to tell me again who you aren't?" Her eyes shot up at last and he'd nearly forgotten how scorching her glares could be. At last, someone with a backbone.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," she snarled and jerked away from his touch.

"That'll come, my dear," he made a pro forma leer but his eyes never left her face, tracing over the curves and hollows that haunted his dreams. "But let's get you cleaned up a bit first, shall we?"

Draco pulled the cord at the wall and as soon as a girl stuck her head in the door he said, "Get a hot bath up here for this one, and some decent attire in something resembling her size. She'll be staying with me from now on."

Granger was smart enough to wait until the girl retreated before she snapped, "Hell will freeze before whatever you've got planned comes to fruition. I'd sooner swallow my tongue than be a part of it!"

"Oh," he returned to his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin. "You, my dear Granger, are one of the most wanted witches in the country. It just happens to be your great good fortune that I'd prefer to install you in my bed than partake of the local professionals."

"What makes you think I'd _want_ to be installed, ferret?"

He inhaled the insult, shutting his eyes briefly only to then smile at her in a slow, cold upturn of the mouth that chilled even him. "Now now, be polite. I doubt you'd prefer I send you down to headquarters where your end will be long and messy and very, very unpleasant. I've heard the Dark Lord has taken to skinning high profile prisoners alive."

Hermione swallowed but only tightened her jaw and straightened her spine even more. "I'm quite aware of what happens, Malfoy, and I stand by my earlier statement."

"Are you really telling me you'd prefer being skinned alive to riding my cock?" He leaned back in the chair, making no attempt to hide the way he admired what few curves made it through those rags.

"I hate you," she spat back at him. "Hell, you hate me! Why would you want a woman in your bed who doesn't want you back?"

He snorted at that. "I'm under no illusions that any of the whores I've used over the past years had any interest in me personally. They just sold their bodies for money; surely you aren't too proud, too stupid, to not make a similar bargain for your own safety, for your life."

He was really going to persist with this? She stole a few glances when she could, looking for an exit and trying not to be obvious about it. "Why not find someone like that here," she was getting desperate now. "I'll disappear, you'll never see me again."

"Well, you see, the problem with professionals is that they're so... professional. I'm tired of women who are used up, plying cold skills with only half their mind engaged. I'm looking forward, my sweet, to - "

"Are you really going to say something as clichéd as 'I'm looking forward to breaking you'?"

He laughed at that, at the sour look she flashed him. Oh, this was going to be even better than he'd hoped. "Never." Another quick incantation and she felt something tingle.

"What was that?"

"A simple glamour charm, my dear. You are one of the most wanted women alive, as I think I mentioned. I don't want to lose you right after I've found you and it wouldn't do for Nott to recognize you; I'm afraid he'd be far less interested in the delights your body could offer than in the career advancement turning you in would bring." He smiled again. "Oh, and a contraception charm. No babies, mmm?"

Hermione shuddered as some of her co-workers, now former co-workers she supposed, dragged a tub and buckets of hot water into the room. "A pity about the lack of running water," Malfoy was saying, "but apparently the local rebels have been destroying all the piping, forcing the castle back to the original amenities. You wouldn't know anything about that would you?" He waved the question off with a smirk that only made her glare deepen. "Fortunately, labor's cheap these days. Get cleaned up, my dear. I expect you at dinner and I'd prefer your smell not put me off my feed."

The staff left and he lingered for a few minutes, watching as impotent fury played across her face. He could taste it, feel it roiling off her skin and he craved it. It was everything he remembered, everything he'd searched for in each and every one of those sad, pathetic shells that – he realized – had barely resembled her at all.

"I'll let you bathe in privacy, at least this time. But, Granger, if you run I'll pick some girl from the staff, someone young and innocent, and torture her to death on the battlements. I'll do it again the next day, and the next, until you come crawling back."

What little color there was left in her face drained away. Bastard. "You've become a monster, Malfoy."

"Well, yes, I suppose I have. After all, I'm still alive." And with that he left her.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione Granger grimly stripped off her grimy clothes and stepped into the bath, her first hot bath in far too long. She tried hard not to enjoy it, but, gods, it was heavenly. She scrubbed at her skin, trying to wash away the stink of the pig pens while rapidly running though different options. Leaving clearly wasn't one. King's mistress? The idea made her stomach clench and she wondered if she could manage to actually have sex with the man without being ill, but she knew - absolutely knew - that if she went back to her own headquarters, told them her plight, she'd be told to hop into bed with Malfoy as fast as possible, and learn everything she could and pass that information along. It was, she admitted, a golden opportunity.

Lucky, _lucky_ her to have this fall into her lap.

She lowered herself under the water to wet her hair and when she came up she found herself staring right into the dark, piercing features of Theodore Nott.

Visions of being skinned alive suddenly danced across her brain and she knew, immediately and absolutely, that she'd fuck Malfoy every hour of every day - never mind any resistance, never mind the possibility of passing on information - if that's what it would take to avoid discovery at the hands the man staring at her, the man who was peeling back all her layers with a simple look; she was under no illusions, looking into those eyes, what the alternative would bring.

"Who," he asked slowly, "are you?"

She didn't have to fake shivering under his dark, penetrating gaze. "Helen Evans," she whispered. "I work in the castle, or I did until Malfoy told me I'd be..." she trailed off.

"Lord Malfoy," the man said absently, still staring at her.

"Begging your pardon," she couldn't look away.

"Let me see your arm." She held it out, shuddering. The scar was gone.

"Why do you have a glamour charm on you?"

"I don't know," she was almost whimpering now. She'd be amazed at how thoroughly this man had dissolved her courage in a manner of seconds if she wasn't so busy cowering naked in a wash basin. "Mal...Lord Malfoy put it on me."

Theodore Nott started to laugh, the simple thing changing his expression to something more palatable. "Oh, Malfoy. Who would ever have thought that? Well, Miss Evans, I look forward to seeing, shall we say," he paused long enough to catch a look of her shape beneath the water, "_less_ of you at dinner. I assume you'll be joining all the senior officers? We generally bring any long term... companions to the table to leaven the conversation."

"I... yes sir." Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Tell Lord Malfoy I was looking for him, wouldn't you, pet?"

"Yes, sir." She paused, barely remembering her act. "Who should I say?"

He smiled and she shuddered again. "Theo Nott, lovely."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ – Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. Much love to punkrocksammy, TheFantabulousPotterHead, FaeBreeze, KincaidBabe, my name is mommy, LadiePhoenix007 and GTH, who nagged via PM to post faster._

_We both have twitter accounts and wouldn't be sad if you followed us. /Colubrina_ and /lechegomyeggo_


	6. Chapter 5 - Dinner and Things

Nott loomed over his little pet, smiling serenely to himself at the things he was going to do to her. She trembled in his presence, her fear tangible; it was wonderful.

"Don't fret, my sweet. You see -," he rested his hand at the small of her back and she flinched, but allowed him to lead her towards the bed. "- I have no interest in raping drudges or paying whatever pox ridden whores are plying their trade down in that village." Her eyes were very wide; she watched as he shed his shoes, then his overcoat, then started on his shirt but paused, holding a hand in her direction. "I, my dear, want a mistress. Someone whose only concern is my happiness."

The girl, still shaking, looked at the proffered hand, then back to his face. He smiled at her, an almost feral look, a look that promised many things, some of them very pleasant indeed.

Not, of course, all of them.

She hesitated, her thoughts swirling in her wide eyes, but finally placed her dainty hand in his.

"No one," he breathed, slowly luring her in, "would be permitted to tell any mistress of mine what to do. Not whatever chatelaine manages this place, not village toughs, not even Lord Malfoy, you understand? Only me."

He watched her eyes sparkle a little bit at that. "And no one could _touch _her but me," he added, guiding her hands to the fastenings of his shirt, suspecting that being reasonably pretty in this miserable excuse for an outpost brought more attention than she might like.

She blinked up at him again, fingers curling cautiously around the buttons and he could see her working it out in her pretty little noggin. Oh yes, the look of relief in her eyes told him that had sealed the deal. She was his now; that she'd just traded petty harassment at the hands of small town bullies for something... well, he'll call it something far more sophisticated in its unpleasantness, she'd learn that soon enough.

By the time she really understood what it was she was about to sign up for she might, after all, even like it. It was so much sweeter, so much more artistic, to lead them down the path to their own debasement, consenting every step of the way.

"And clothing," he leaned back against the headboard, away from her touch. He could tell she was trying to figure if she was supposed to follow him or not. Good. Learning already. The totally stupid ones were no fun at all. "I'd expect the castle to outfit my mistress according to her station and my whims." He looked down at his nails, pretending to idly examine his pristine hands. "I would expect absolute obedience, I'm afraid; I'm much too busy to have time for little power games with my ladylove. And, of course, as I mentioned, I've no interest in rapine, so if this doesn't interest you, if I don't interest you, I'll look elsewhere."

He glanced up at her. Oh, it was so beautiful; the fear was back in her eyes and this time it was fear he'd withdraw his offer to ravish her repeatedly rather than fear he'd do it.

"I... I'd like that," she whispered.

"I'd like that, sir," he corrected with no heat and watched her flush.

"I'd like that, sir," she repeated, looking down and balling her fists in her lap.

"Excellent," he stood briskly and brushed non-existent lint off his slacks. "Have the staff bring you hot water and soap and get yourself cleaned up. You needn't carry it yourself," he smiled indulgently at her. "I want your strength conserved for other things." He watched her quickly reevaluate her status within the castle hierarchy and smiled at the conclusion she came to; he wondered how long it would take the mindless laborers who made this behemoth function go from envying her to pitying her.

"Also," he continued without a break, "requisition several gowns. Don't be shy about having whatever passes as a seamstress in this place make them up for you on spec and don't be modest in their design."

"Thank you," she whispered, and then added, "sir. I'll try to make sure you're happy."

"See that you do."

He departed his quarters once again, refastening his buttons and humming pleasantly to himself, thinking to pay Malfoy - the spoiled little gnat - a visit and hopefully gloat some more.

. . . . . . . . . .

The discovery of a small, unused room with a fully stocked liquor cabinet inspired a pre-dinner happy hour. Zabini questioned the wisdom of drinking with Nott but it had been a long day and the discovery of the miserable wretch in his quarters had pushed him into a brooding depression that alcohol might numb.

"I found the most interesting thing in your suite," Nott said, passing a bottle of brandy over to Draco.

"Oh?" His question was mild but it was fortunate the man couldn't see the muscle in his jaw tick from this angle.

"A local tart cleaning off her stink, glamoured to look almost exactly like Hermione Granger." Theo glanced over at the blonde while pouring himself a glass of something clear and possibly vile. "Not quite - you missed the scar and her face is slightly off. Oh, and there was that minor thing that she was a simpering idiot - but damn close, mate. Care to explain?"

Draco snorted, finishing capping the bottle only to turn and lift his glass to the man in a mock salute. "I don't ask about your kinks; do me the same favor, please."

"Really? Granger?" Zabini took the a shot glass from the cupboard and poured himself a drink as well.

"It turns out," Draco drawled, "that I really like having Hermione Granger beneath me, begging me to fuck her."

"Why?" Zabini raised his eyebrows.

Draco shrugged. "I guess I just like rolling in the mud." He sent a dark, meaningful look towards the Italian. "A little taste of the forbidden. Something off limits, traitorous to a sane man's sensibilities. Every bloke's got a fantasy, Zabini. Don't you?"

His eyes narrowed and Blaise downed his shot, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear a few escaped drops. Gray eyes were still staring at him from behind a brandy snifter when they met again.

Nott snorted with disgust. He'd never been a fan of the bushy haired witch and apparently the idea she was someone else's fantasy was not appealing. He slammed back his drink and said, "I'll see you and the charming Miss Evans at dinner. For now, I'm off."

The two men watched him leave and Blaise Zabini leaned back and looked at Draco, studying the young commander a long while before finally asking, "So, is she glamoured to look like Granger, or glamoured to look just a little bit _not _like her."

"What do you mean?"

He snorted at the feigned ignorance. "You didn't even know her name. He was already walking out, didn't see your face, but for a split second your eyes gave it away."

"I don't always know the names of the women I take, it's true." Draco shrugged.

"You know he's off to report you've got a girl who looks like Granger that you're installing as your mistress, right?" _What the bloody hell are you doing, Draco?_

"Let him," Draco sipped from his own glass. "It was common knowledge in the brothels back home that I preferred bushy-haired brunettes and that the more a girl looked like Granger the bigger tip I'd leave. They used glamour charms of their own to look like her."

First, there was a moment of surprise that actually managed to climb onto the other man's face before he wiped it away. Then, there was an understanding that passed between them. Blaise stared hard at Draco and he just looked back, sipping at his booze, holding the other man's gaze unwaveringly. The Italian sighed and blinked down into the empty shot glass, then poured himself another.

He knocked back the next one and allowed its slow burn to trickle down his throat before shaking his head then looking at the blonde gravely. "You're putting her in a dangerous position - having to sit and talk to Nott every night over dinner?"

"Not real sure what you're talking about, mate." Draco looked at Zabini, silently bringing a thumb and forefinger to one of his earlobes to tug at it and then used his index and middle fingers to gesture at first his eyes and then the room.

Blaise quirked an eyebrow, but took a very easy stroll around the modest sitting room, eying the sparse furniture and paying particular attention to the layers of dust on every piece.

Nothing out of place beyond the liquor cabinet they'd most obviously disturbed.

Nothing appeared to be moved that would indicate earlier placements of listening devices – one of the few things the Weasleys actually helped create before, well, the world changed.

The dark man glanced at the doorway and made his way back to his earlier spot. "What if she slips?"

"She was the brightest witch of our age and I've put the very real fear of death into her." He sipped his brandy again. "She's not going to slip."

"Do you honestly think the real thing will beg as prettily as someone you're paying?"

Draco shrugged. "Maybe not, but if she does it will be that much sweeter."

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise eyed Hermione Granger. Even if he hadn't already figured it out over drinks he would have known it was her just by the way her eyes lit with fury whenever she looked at him. She either knew he knew it was she or she just didn't give a shit if he found out. The woman sat stiffly next to Malfoy, cleaned up in a dress that looked like it would have been warm if it hadn't been cut quite so low. The tension in her shoulders suggested the man's hopes for pretty begging would be dashed, something that amused Blaise. Nott had also brought some pretty little thing to the table; Blaise had never understood how a man as bright as Nott could be happy with the cringing idiots he always sought out. They'd just gotten here and already he had some girl watching his every move as though he was the center of her world.

It was actually a little creepy, if by 'a little' you meant 'completely fucking mental'.

"Where's yours?" Nott looked over at him while idly playing with his pet's hair, picking up still damp strands of it and letting them fall heavily around her bare shoulders with soft little 'thwunks'. She didn't react, didn't tell him to stop, didn't flirt; she just watched him with her big, dark eyes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your girl. We were all assigned one. Malfoy and I both got ours cleaned up and dressed for dinner." He nodded at both women, his nose hovering at his girl's temple before brushing over the skin. "What happened to yours?"

"I suspect she's sitting naked in my room right where I left her." Blaise gazed steadily back at the man. "I don't see any need to bring whores to dinner and pretend they're anything other than what they are." He shifted his stare to Granger – oh, if looks could kill.

Nott choked back a laugh. "Every once in a while, Zabini, you actually impress me."

"Color me thrilled."

"Did you really leave her _naked_?" Granger choked out, looking like he'd just confirmed her opinion of him.

"She speaks, and in complete sentences," Nott sneered.

He was looking at her with that dark stare once again. Hermione stilled her tongue, biting at the insides of her cheeks to keep from speaking again, not freely. She didn't want that man's attention on her if she could help it.

"I did, Miss…" Zabini looked at her expectantly, then added, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Evans," she muttered and Blaise tried not to laugh when he realized where he'd heard that name before. Did she really name herself after Lily Evans? He couldn't help but appreciate the gallows humor of that.

"Well, Miss _Evans_, yes, I did leave her naked in my room. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Tell the nice man you don't have any problems with him," Malfoy smirked at her and stroked a hand over her curls, smiling more broadly at the way she stiffened under his touch.

"Which nice man would that be?" she looked confused and Malfoy sighed dramatically at her stubbornness and feigned naiveté.

"The one you were just introduced to, sweetling."

Blaise watched her act falter and the scowl at the endearment emerge briefly before she turned to him and said, in mock contrition, "I'm so sorry I had a problem with you leaving a girl naked in your room. I can't imagine what I was thinking to be disturbed by that." She turned back to Malfoy and added, "Was that good enough?" She paused and then tacked on, in the sweetest tone imaginable, "_Lord Malfoy_."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward, amused at herself for mocking his title and her expression stayed that way until she saw Malfoy's eyes. He intently watched her lips and something hungry flashed in those eyes for just a second before he was back to his normal, prattish self. The moment drained her of her humor and made something uncomfortable settle in the pit of her stomach.

Nott laughed. "Have fun taming that one, Malfoy."

Blaise found himself irritated with Granger, thinking to himself that it was just fucking wonderful that her first assumption was that he was abusing the stupid girl who'd been assigned to clean his room. It couldn't possibly be that, unlike his two fellow officers, he didn't actually make finding a bird to fawn all over him his first priority and had just… _Gah! _Years picking through the gutters and wilds and she was still as insufferable as he remembered.

"We don't all like our pets quite as domesticated as you clearly do," Malfoy drawled at Nott, caressing Granger's leg and chuckling as she glared at him but didn't dare lash out again. He looked with a frown at the doorway, recalling the reason he was even there in the first place instead of in his suite thoroughly debauching his prize. "I take it these people are as bad at serving dinner as they are at everything else?"

"I'd be careful what you eat," Granger said quietly, leaning over towards Nott's little toy. "The kitchen staff doesn't practice the best safe food handling techniques. Stay away from meat as much as you can."

"Speaking of which," Nott looked at Malfoy, "the whore who escorted us to our rooms needs to be removed from kitchen work. I'm fairly sure the lovely Miss Evans would agree that 'open and oozing sores' counts as unsafe food handling."

Malfoy smiled but it didn't reach his eyes as his hand combed through her hair again, in clear sight of the dark eyed man. "Thank you for volunteering to take on reorganizing the kitchen issues, Nott. I explicitly trust your judgment in getting that handled."

"Maybe your Miss Evans could help me," he purred, the same look he'd usually reserved for the real Granger edging its way to the surface, "She seems to have opinions about the matter."

Blaise watched Granger go pale and amazingly lean just a fraction closer to the blonde – the lesser of two evils. Smart girl. Stay away from Nott, he thought, and stay away from his pets.

"I'm afraid not," Malfoy slid his hand possessively around the witch. His voice bordered on a growl even as he tried to keep the conversation light, jovial, "I plan to keep her busy doing other things."

The tight moment shattered when the grimy staff brought in platters piled high with the most unappetizing excuse for sustenance they'd seen in some time.

Blaise hated to agree with Nott but the man was right; there wasn't a water shortage and so there was no excuse for this level of slovenliness, especially when it came to dealing with food.

Nott looked at the serving women who all stood, waiting to be dismissed. "Tomorrow night," he said quietly, "you'll all be washed and the food will be on time or I'll randomly select one of you to entertain all the men we brought up with us." He raised his eyebrows and surveyed the women. "Have I made myself clear?" There was a spate of nervous bobbing that only stopped when he added, still without raising his voice, "then get out."

"Crude but effective," Malfoy raised a glass towards the man.

"Some people respond better to simple threats," the man shrugged. "Would you prefer to heal or kill the ones with sores?"

"Surely you can use your own judgment?" Nott nodded and dished food up for first himself and then the girl he'd brought to the table as everyone else filled their own plates. She watched his movements with a neutral look, waiting until he tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and whispered something to her before finally beginning to indulge.

"Zabini," Malfoy turned to the Italian, "I realize this isn't your area of expertise, but can you take responsibility for getting the courtyard cleaned up and repaired? We need to get the postern gate fixed, the bodies disposed of, the grasses burned and everything scrubbed plus who knows how many other problems you'll find by the light of day."

"Do you have a timeline?" Zabini decided to follow Granger's advice and avoided the meat – if you could call it that – as he selected his food.

"As soon as fucking possible? I think basic repairs and clean up needs to be our first priority so use the whole team, and as many of the locals as can find their own arse with both hands, to get it done."

Zabini nodded. "Do you want to put any time or energy into the village?"

"Not yet. Let's get our own house cleaned up, so to speak, before we start dealing with people stupid enough to court a cholera outbreak."

"Not cholera, dysentery," Granger whispered. Malfoy turned slowly to look at her. She hunched down in her seat, obviously cursing herself for the correction – old habits died hard - but looked up at him anyway. "There've been waves of dysentery for the past six months."

"So water-borne illnesses are a known problem," the man said briskly, not nearly as angry with her outburst as she'd thought he would be judging by her relieved posture. "Can't say I'm surprised given the state of the streets." He patted Granger condescendingly and she glared at him, the faux pas behind them now. "We'll take care of it, lovely, as soon as we get the castle cleaned up. Can't have the local labor supply all dying. Hard to send taxes down south when everyone's dead."

"Wouldn't want to risk failure, would you," Nott's expression was totally bland. He waited until he was finished chewing and swallowing before speaking next so that he could smile properly afterward. "Not with your mommy issues."

Zabini watched Granger turn slowly to look at Malfoy. She was subtle enough in her shift, but her expression gradually changed from resentful to thoughtful consideration. He shook his head and went back to stabbing at his plate with his fork, the tines all askew and bothersome.

"I generally try to excel in all my assignments, Nott." Malfoy forked a bit of mashed root vegetable into his mouth and added after swallowing. "A work ethic I wish the previous commander had embraced."

"True enough, that," Zabini muttered. "This place is a bloody fucking disaster." They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating what apparently qualified as a welcoming feast.

"Any idea who your mole is?" Nott poked at his stewed carrots with obvious disdain.

"That might take me just a tad bit longer to suss out than who the contagious members of the cooking staff are," Zabini snorted. "And I'll be slowed down somewhat in that investigation with our dear Lord Malfoy's request that I get the courtyard cleaned up."

"Excuses, excuses."

"Yes, well, some of us try to actually do our jobs rather than just skulk about watching other people do theirs." Zabini pushed back from the table quite done with both his dinner companions and their 'meal'. "And I think I may go do mine." He sent a sour look at Granger who, after her ill-considered admission that she knew what dysentery was, had slumped in her seat and was drearily eating the equally dreary vegetables she'd selected. "Or maybe I'll just go visit my little naked cleaning woman."

He turned to depart before she could see his look of satisfaction at how easily he could rile her; he felt that scathing glare burning holes into the back of his head, though.

Soon, Granger. You and I will have a chat very soon.

. . . . . . . . . .

Dinner was mostly quiet murmurs and snippets of conversation after Zabini left. It seemed without the third man in the mix, the other two operated only in silence or by gnashing their teeth at one another. Considering their teeth were mostly busy trying to work through what passed as dinner, they opted for the silence.

It was just as well.

By the time Hermione was 'deposited' back into Malfoy's suite while he begrudgingly met with the men down the hall, she had done some long, hard thinking and came to one, extremely unpleasant, conclusion.

She would have to participate in her own ravishment.

She'd have to make the bastard think that she was, if not exactly willing, than persuadable at the very least. She has to be the King's Mistress, indeed. It wasn't a role for a whore or a prisoner or a victim; she needed to be more than just another hole he could thrust into. She had to find a way to be his confidant. She needed him to turn to her as the one person he could trust in a castle full of snakes.

She would be more than a warm body heating his bed; she would lure him into thinking of her as a lover in every sense.

Hermione shivered at the thought, remembering the way his stare lingered on her mouth. He'd mostly made no show of hiding how he appraised her, though he did try to hide how he watched her eat. It was obvious he was a viciously effective, terrifying soldier. His looks though, his stolen glances, they weren't terrifying, they were just...something else entirely. They were raw, they were feral, they were all consuming and with the way that he struggled with them himself, it seemed even he were fighting against it.

That. There. That hesitance. That reluctance to give in to whatever _it_ was. She could work with that. She would _have_ to.

She just needed enough time for that transition from 'terrified and unwilling woman who hates him' into 'woman who loves him against her own reason, against her own judgment' to be believable. Malfoy wasn't an idiot, he would never believe that she'd just up and have a change of heart overnight. But there was that something there, something going on more potent than simple lust, and, whatever that was, it would at least give her an in.

Hermione would, heaven help her, have to play the role of the slowly convinced partner so thoroughly he would never suspect a thing; all while also keeping her own head. He was arrogant still, that was also obvious; it could work. She'd just have to be careful, have to avoid Stockholm Syndrome…

Her heart tried its damnedest to hiccup into her throat.

She could do that...couldn't she? She had lasted this long in this wild, awful world, survived _too_ long to quit now just because she'd have to use her body too this time. Have to make this play realistic, though, she thought to herself, have to open up. Have to…

The door to his chambers opened and slammed shut, the current owner of the room looking more than a little brassed off.

Her heart did that hiccupping thing again.

And so, back from another meeting with Nott – who had turned into a truly terrifying fiend – and Zabini she stood, waiting for him in the dress he'd picked out.

Malfoy dropped his things on his desk and made an appreciative grunt at the sight of her.

This bitch, this filthy mudblood bitch had plagued his dreams – his nightmares – for what seemed like ages. From the snotty little swot she started out as all the way to the snotty little swot she grew into, she'd been a pain in his side from day one. Always there, always one step ahead, besting him in practically everything they had ever competed in. She was a challenge he knew he'd never be able to conquer, that truly untamable beast, she was the bleedin' sun and he was her bloody fool Icarus.

He'd been warned about her kind, was told he could never have her, the blood was too dirty. He'd seen that blood, seen it streaked across the Manor floor and it wasn't dirty at all. It was bright. It was red. And it pumped a fire through her so hot that it would melt the sins from his bones.

He wanted it – wanted _her _- all for himself. He _needed _her. He needed – what? Absolution? A haven? He wasn't even sure what he needed only that, damn it, she was here now and he would have it, have her, have all of her, even if it killed him.

Draco closed the distance between them with obvious anticipation and lowered his mouth to hers, tasting the lips of the real thing for the first time instead of some glamoured whore.

She was utterly cold and unresponsive.

She didn't fight him.

She didn't push him away.

She didn't even seem to notice he was there.

He drew back and looked at her with thinly veiled irritation. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a frigid twat, Granger."

"Oh?" The woman took a few steps back from him and began to smile, slowly and coldly. "Maybe you'd prefer this?"

And then she suddenly began to gasp as she stood there, to whimper his last name, first quietly, then with more volume. She leaned heavily back against his desk, gripping the edge on either side, tugging her lip between her teeth until her head was tossing to and fro, hair bouncing around her face. Her chest rose and fell and she panted in apparent ecstasy, even her hands convulsed and she switched to clutching at her skirt. One knee came up, slipping the garment down her thigh as her back arched in a confusion of movement. Her stifled whimpers heightened, head lolled back, mouth dropped open so he could see her tongue curled against the back of her teeth – then, just as suddenly, she was done and she looked at him coldly again.

She righted herself, smoothing her skirt and watching the dawning comprehension on his face. "Surprise, Malfoy." She walked back over to him, leaned against his body and he could feel the length of her pressed into him. He went rigid at her touch in a not wholly unpleasant way as she whispered into his ear, "You can hold my life over my head, make me your strumpet, do with me what you will, but you'll never ever know whether any response I give you in bed, or out, is genuine or faked. I can easily give you a lie and nothing else. _Nothing_ else."

"What," he muttered, putting his hands over her arse and starting to knead the flesh while walking her back to her earlier place at his desk, "makes you think I care?"

Hermione walked with him, her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears. Her plan had seemed logical, reasonable even, when this dark and angry man hadn't been pressed against her, so obviously enjoying her. She pulled away and looked at him; his eyes had clouded over and were a mere shadow of their usual bright gray. They were looking at her, not at her breasts, or her lips, but her. It was as if he wanted to consume her, utterly, as if she were – something, but what? Something more. That _something_ was the thing she could work with.

And just like that, she was at his ear again, cooing seductively, "Oh, you care." Hermione traced a finger over his heart and felt his inhale, felt his chest rising into her touch. "You want to believe, down in that rotten, dark lump you call a heart that someone can see past the monster you've become, someone can recognize your soul and love you and you want that person to be me. If you didn't, you'd have sent me off to die. There are far, far less dangerous women to fuck, Draco Malfoy, than me. If your friend Nott finds out you've been hiding me, how sympathetic do you think he'll be to your desire to have a little spice in your sex life? Probably not much." She's twined her hands around him, up in his hair, in a horrible parody of affection and desire and she felt his breathing hitch, his hands tighten painfully around her rear and she had to stifle an involuntary whimper.

You're not, she thought to herself, supposed to _like_ it.

I, Draco thought to himself, am not the only person the war has made colder, _darker_.

The idealistic bookworm he remembered from school would never have even recognized all the dark currents flowing around them much less articulated them so brutally. She would certainly never have utilized them to save her own tail; he found he liked this new, darker, hotter version.

"Or," she shoved him away so suddenly that he stumbled, catching himself with a hand on the bed's footboard; she's surprised he let her do it but continued smoothly, "We can make a deal."

"You don't have anything to bargain with," he smirked cockily, but the lust was plain on his face.

"Oh, but I do."

Hermione took a step forward.

"I have honesty. I can agree to never fake it, to let you know that any whimper, any sigh, any orgasm you wring from me is the real thing."

She took another, fingers curling into the meat of her skirt and she began tugging it up her legs. His tongue flicked out to whet his lips.

"I can't promise to love you, or even to like you – you poisoned that garden years ago – but I can promise to give you a chance."

Another step and she was there, standing right before him again. He braced himself against the footboard with his hand, knuckles turning white with his grip and his gaze, she noticed again, was not raking over her body, but watching her face. Watching. Waiting? There was that flicker of that something again from dinner, her lifeline, her way out. She latched onto it like it was her dying breath and, just like that, the predator was now the prey.

Hermione leaned in, her face centimeters away, watching him watching her – it was surreal and she had to blink to keep from being sucked away with the vision. "The real question is, Draco Malfoy," she whispered, her nose and lips running a path back to his ear, one hand curling around his neck while the other snaked up into his hair, "What can you give _me_ in exchange?"

His hands were at her arse again and he stood, hefting her into his arms only to turn and deposit her straight back onto the bed. He was climbing up her body, coming to rest with an arm on either side of the massive spread of hair framing her in a halo. Hermione's _something_ flashed on his face, lasted much longer this time around, and he leaned in to whisper his offer in her ear. She jerked back – as well as one can when pressed into a pile of springs and cushions in any case – a disbelieving look plastered to her face.

Draco bent down again, pressing a firm kiss onto a sensitive spot behind her ear, and nodded. "...I'll show you..." he murmured repeatedly into her skin until she finally agreed.

The deal was struck.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__Thank you to everyone. This is such fun to write that it has occurred to both of us there might just be something wrong with us. _

_Special thanks to our reviewers: Grovek26, xXMiss Alec VolturiXx, ladymagna1100, Gullb3rg, FaeBreeze, nikki98, ASJS, LB123, pagyn, TheFantabulousPotterHead, LadiePhoenix007, punkrocksammy._

_You know how we love your thoughts…_


	7. Chapter 6 - Twice in One Night?

After a dinner that would have driven him to take solace deep in a bottle if he hadn't long ago decided that excessive alcohol would get him killed, Blaise took his schematics and stalked through the halls of the miserable, misbegotten, damp castle he now had the displeasure of calling home.

He'd left his slave - might as well call a spade a spade, as the saying went - back in his quarters cuddled on his sofa under a blanket. She smelled considerably better after her bath and he'd confirmed she was free of any sores. That she only had the one dress irritated him; he didn't want her wandering about naked every time she did her laundry.

"Go requisition another bloody dress," he'd snapped at her. "If Malfoy can dress Gr... his girl up in a fucking gown I can damn well insist you at least have a second outfit. And get something warm enough you don't get sick in this drafty heap."

Her pathetic gratitude had made him want to throw up. He remembered when being nice to a girl involved buying her candy – _candy quills were always a favorite_ – and teasing her about how their coloring would combine to create beautiful children. That letting some beaten down wench use his cold, dirty bathwater had come to be 'nice', was now something she thought deserving of thanks, just reminded him how much he hated this new world.

And he really hated being reminded of that.

He didn't know what Malfoy was thinking; whatever the man's weird obsession with Granger was, keeping her in his fucking room was absolutely stupid. Blaise was fairly sure only her obviously sincere fear of Nott would keep her from slitting Malfoy's throat in his sleep. Whatever the man had said to her about Nott, it had been effective, or maybe it was just her survival instinct alerting her to the very real danger of the completely insane man. Either way, she'd watched him during dinner with badly masked terror in her eyes, terror that the man obviously found intoxicating.

Him, on the other hand, she'd looked at him like she wanted to kill him.

Blaise thought to himself that, while he'd never really taken to the new custom of hitting women, if Granger had the unmitigated nerve to blame him for what had happened – for what had fucking destroyed him – well, he'd make an exception for her and beat her bloody. Nobody, not even Granger, had the right to put that on him.

Up one corridor he went, down another, walking the halls of the castle. Most strategists relied only on maps; Blaise Zabini liked to physically feel as much of the terrain as he could. It wasn't just that maps could be, and almost always were, wrong, it was that they were so damned incomplete about the real logistical problems.

When you carried water up a hill, for example, you realized how heavy it was in a visceral way no map or report could ever convey. You learned things being there, things that could make the difference. It was a slow, painstaking way to work; it was also why he was the best at what he did.

Who was the mole?

That was the real question. Or, of course, who could he realistically offer up as a culprit?

He'd traded secrets with Malfoy over drinks because, fuck, the man wasn't stupid. He'd have figured it out sooner or later and someone was going to have to pay the price. This was the problem when you dealt with amateurs, even talented amateurs; they overdid things and then you had to clean up the mess.

There.

He stopped and looked at the wall. Scuff marks, and, more, scuff marks someone had tried to wash away. In a castle no one seemed to have cleaned since the dawn of the new age, that was significant. He traced his fingers along the wall, searching for something, for anything. There, again, in the shadows between the torches, low enough for a short woman to reach, was a hole in the wall, a place mortar had been chiseled out just enough to leave a space big enough for a note. He reached in, cursing the possibility of spiders – gods, did he fucking bloody hate spiders – and pulled out a scrap of paper.

"Nott. Zabini. Malfoy. 24 men inc. 1 medic."

He tucked the scrap into a pocket and stalked off to bring this little message drop to Malfoy.

. . . . . . . . .

Blaise pushed open the door into Malfoy's room only able to distinguish his pale, pasty bum and Granger's slightly more tan legs draped over his shoulders, her feminine cry hit his ears right before he realized what was happening. "Christ!" he turned around. "Fucking HELL, lock your goddamn door before you start with that!"

"You should bloody well knock!" Malfoy slammed his fist into the bed and stood up, blocking any vision of his prize from the unwelcome Italian while wrapping one of the spare throws around his waist. "What the FUCK do you want, Zabini?"

"I need to talk to you." He risked turning back around, thankful to see Malfoy at least partially covered. The blonde stomped angrily to a pile of his discarded clothing, yanking up a 'clean enough' shirt and swiping it over his mouth to wipe away something he had absolutely no interest in naming.

"So talk."

"Alone." Blaise eyed the woman on the bed as she tugged her dress back into place, pointedly avoiding his stare for once.

"Christ on a bloody cracker," Malfoy snarled, "Does it have to be NOW?!"

"Fine." Zabini rolled his eyes. "Play with your toy. I'm going to go talk to Nott but we need to meet tomorrow. First thing."

He heard another angry noise from the man as he left, not missing exactly how loudly the lock slid into place after the door slammed. Blaise rubbed at his face, desperately willing the vision of Draco's naked arse to disappear from the backs of his eyelids.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise Zabini made a mental note to start knocking. Malfoy's arse was bad enough – more than bad enough – but finding Nott's little toy kneeling at his feet being bloody well instructed on…

Well, based on what he overheard, Nott had broken down the essentials of fellatio into small words once or twice already. He found himself disturbed that anyone could sound that calm and disconnected when his cock was rammed down a woman's throat. Most men – most sane men - would be at least a tad distracted by that.

"What the fucking FUCK?" Zabini swore, more shocked than he wanted to admit by how cold Nott sounded.

The man didn't even have the grace to look rattled; he just slowly turned around, loosening his grip on the girl's hair so she crumbled to the ground at his feet. She made no attempt to move but just lay there, naked and shuddering, on the frigid stone floor.

Fuck.

Zabini hoped she wasn't going to die while he was standing there.

"I don't generally share," Nott drawled, looking completely comfortable standing there with all his bits and pieces hanging out at attention and partially used, "But I suppose I could make an exception if you shared yours."

"Am I the only person on this fucking mission who isn't trying to have sexy fun times with some doxy tonight? Or who knows how to use a bloody LOCK?!" he snapped from behind the forearm shielding most of his view of..._things..._covering his revulsion at the idea of sharing anything with Nott. "I found an intel drop and, silly me, I thought you might want to actually know about it what with you being in intelligence and all."

Nott held his hand out silently and Zabini handed him the scrap of paper. The man read it and narrowed his eyes, somehow looking even _more_ dangerous standing there in the buff with a murderous glint in his eyes. "We don't know who the writer is?"

"Not yet," Zabini waited for Nott to process.

"Where's the drop?"

"It's in an external corridor; very small hole in the mortar. Leave it from the inside, someone from the outside can fish it out. And, I assume, vice versa."

"Have you told Malfoy?"

Merlin, that girl still hadn't moved. "Did you kill her?" he asked, momentarily distracted, "Already?" Zabini gestured to the woman.

"She's just doing as she's told." Nott didn't even look back at her. "Malfoy?"

"Fucking his glamoured up bint, not interested in meeting until tomorrow morning."

"That man needs to straighten out his priorities," Nott smiled toothily.

Pot? Kettle?

"Well, Mr. Intelligence, think about how you want to play this. My vote is to intercept, occasionally falsify, and let patience bring us a bigger fish than whatever castle drudge is passing along the info."

Nott nodded. "We can discuss at length tomorrow when Malfoy's thinking with something other than his dick but my first thought is to agree with you."

"Do we need to worry about her repeating any of this conversation?" Blaise eyed the girl, whose chest he did see finally rise and fall at least once.

"No," Nott smiled. "She wouldn't dare."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione had pulled her dress both up and down and was sitting on the bed with her head in her hands when Draco turned back to her.

Fuck. Blaise had already found something. One bloody night and the man had found something he thought was important enough to come barging in and bloody well humiliating her.

Well, in all fairness that latter bit probably hadn't been his intention. Still, one more reason to kill the man wasn't what she needed when she had her fucking ankles up around her ears.

She eyed Draco, who had tossed his shirt back to the pile and looked ready to continue as if nothing had happened. "Give me a moment," she muttered. "Your friend, dear Lord Zabini, has terrible timing."

He laughed. "It's not Lord Zabini. More like Wanker-of-the-Night Zabini."

"Is that one of the actual new titles?" She scrunched her nose at the thought. The entire quasi-medieval title crap made her feel ill but what could you expect from a man who first turned his name into a pretentious, twatty anagram and then decided he'd prefer being called 'The Dark Lord' anyway.

"It should be." The man was standing there, staring at her again with that bizarrely intense look in his eyes, like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

She lay back and patted the bed next to her hoping to pull him from whatever lurid thoughts were bustling about in his head. When he hesitated she groaned and said, "Seriously, Malfoy, give me a fucking minute here. Christ, I was close and that was a bit like having a bucket of wet, dirty water dumped on me."

Take the bait, she thought, come on, Malfoy, you know you want more than sex. Take the bait and come lay down next to me. If this works I might actually bless Zabini for that little interruption.

"Lord Malfoy," his response was almost automatic but he sat next to her a bit stiffly, looked down at her and began to pull a curl through his fingers.

"Do you really expect me to call you by your title when we're in the privacy of our bedroom?" She gave him an incredulous look, but he was much more focused on the springiness of her hair.

"Were you really close?" His eyes came up sharply, a bit eagerly, to search her face for falsehoods.

It was an abrupt question but she tucked away that he didn't correct her description of the room as 'our bedroom.' Score one for Hermione. And he seemed to actually give a shit whether he'd been pleasing her. Score two.

She didn't immediately answer and he took the curl he'd been fondling and viciously dragged her by it so her head was in his lap. "We had a deal," he hissed.

If she didn't know any better, she would've sensed a hair of insecurity there... Oh Malfoy, she mused, still searching for approval after all this time?

She yanked her hair out of his fist and sat up, watched how his nostrils flared as she came to her knees at his side. "I don't think," she was inches from his face, "our deal included my spelling out what I _felt_, only that I wouldn't fake it. If you can't tell…"

He grabbed her curls again, making a fist at the base of her skull and holding her head firmly; it bloody well hurt and she was starting to get pissed off. He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me."

She swallowed how much she wanted to shove a knife into those searching eyes and smiled instead, then pulled herself onto his lap. Looping her arms around his neck, she wrapped her legs around him and allowed a soft sound of approval to slip past her lips at what she felt there. He twitched in response.

"Yes, Malfoy, I was close. Insecure much?" She voiced her earlier suspicion.

He scoffed and tossed her an only mostly believable cocky smirk. "Just trying to keep you honest, pet." He pulled one of her arms from around his neck, slipping his grip down to hold one of her delicate hands in his and dotted kisses over the pads of her fingertips in a mockery of a lover's caress. "The punishment for deal breaking is..._severe."_

She felt him pressing back on one of her fingers almost painfully while he held her stare with an unspoken threat. His gaze was still dark, heated, but also defensive. She deftly shifted her hand to press their palms together, curling her fingers around his and earning her a second of a startled look from the man before he locked it away.

"You're very, _very_ good at that." Hermione leaned in to whisper in his ear feeling his grip ease some on both her hair and her hand. She guided their clasped ones to her hip, his other loosening and following suit of its own accord. He began rocking her hips lightly against his own and she didn't have to fake the gasp at a particularly good grind. "So, yes, I was close. And if you _give me a fucking minute_ I will reciprocate."

Draco inhaled deeply at the sultry purr that sent shocks directly to his groin. I'll be fucking you in a minute, he corrected the statement in his head. "I told you so," he said lowly, hands tugging at her gown with the clear intention of ridding her of it entirely this time.

She smacked his hands away, the mischievous quirk to her lips chased away whatever protest was on his tongue. "For a soldier, you don't listen very well."

Even as she spoke, she was moving again, lifting herself from his body – earning a noise of disapproval from the man between her legs. She trailed her hands down his chest, head tilting to one side as she examined the scars marring his torso – whole stories were played out in white and red lines that crossed and recrossed his body - until her hands played at the edge of where the throw was still loosely tucked into itself at his waist.

"Commander – I think you'd rather like to trust me to give the orders here. You're good, but so am I and it's _your turn_."

He watched her intently, working the makeshift covering free. The blonde basked in a wholly masculine pleasure when one of her eyebrows ticked up and the edge of her lip disappeared between her teeth in a perfect mirror of things he'd only ever dreamed of with this witch.

Hermione slipped down his body, peppering a few kisses over his chest and abdomen, sliding her tongue along some of the scars, watching him struggle with his breathing, watching the feigned nonchalance slip away the closer she got to _him_.

Nice try, she chuckled inwardly at the way one of his hands clenched in the sheets to his side.

She hovered over the length of him, her bosom brushing the tip and dared to peer up from beneath her dark lashes; his breath hitched as she did so. "Perhaps that's the problem, _Malfoy._ Too much time giving orders, not enough time taking them."

The correction was again on the tip of his tongue, but then, _he_ was on _hers._

A groan slipped out and his head knocked back against the headboard at the sudden wet heat surrounding him. That smartarsed little tongue of hers was doing something immediately, intensely wonderful that made a whole other pint of blood rush south, leaving his brain a bit foggy. He peered down through half-lidded eyes –_ a mistake_ – and nearly blew it like a bloody teenager with the way she had her rear popped up and wriggling and was still watching him with _those fucking eyes._

"Granger," he choked out unconsciously, a hand twining in her hair.

To her surprise, a wash of tingling heat rocketed to her womb at the too ragged sound of her name. She shut her eyes, had to look away, against the feel of his thumb tracing circles over her temple, not sure he even realized what he was doing. His hips jerked lightly at another swirl of her tongue and she found herself quite literally salivating at the inherent shift of power.

One hand gripped him at the base while her head bobbed and continued working him to a frenzy. The other danced over his thigh, squeezing at the clenched muscles before grabbing ungracefully at her skirts to hike them over her hips. If anyone had asked her what she was doing in that moment, she wouldn't have been all too sure what she would've said, she just knew that she was too damned hot and having those bloody things off her skin would feel _so_ much better. The second the cool air of the room hit her bare rear, a hungry growl sounded from the body beneath her.

Hermione felt her head being pulled quickly, but carefully, from him with a comical _'pop'._ His gray eyes were stormy and dark with lust as they watched a tendril of spittle fall down her chin before he flipped them so she was pressed into the length of the mattress. She gasped his name in surprise, every nerve in her body alive and buzzing for this horrible man above her, and she caught a barely recognizable snarl telling her how he was going to drill his title into her so thoroughly that it would be all she'd know to scream.

As trite as the words were, she found her eyelids fluttering at the implication of the promise, particularly as he finally freed her of that blasted gown and positioned himself at her entrance. She turned hooded eyes to his face then, trying to make sense of what she saw.

His face lit up – no, _seriously_, it was lit up – like a new light had just been ignited in the room. She furrowed her brow trying to figure it out when an alarm sounded in the back of her mind, survival instincts that'd kept her around this long flared to life. She turned her head awkwardly towards the closed balcony doors in time to realize where the light was coming from and she reacted automatically.

"Malfoy!"

She'd screeched in surprise, not ecstasy – hell, he wasn't even in her yet – and he felt her nails bite into his arms and shove him away. He saw then, finally noticing the growing pile of lit arrows that'd found their way into the storage crates outside. That wasn't what had her panicking, his brain quickly recognized, the sizable chunk of rock that was rapidly hurtling through the growing wall of flames towards the mostly glass doors was much more likely the culprit.

And then he was rolling them. He had her tucked against his frame as the boulder exploded into the room, showering the immediate area with shards of glass and splinters. He took them across the mattress to the far side of the bed to use it as some kind of a barrier, though from the sound of her hiss, he hadn't gotten her completely clear of the blast.

He took a moment to file away that her instincts were too damn good for a cleaning woman. That, along with her graceful, controlled movements from before, was something he would have to investigate when he had a little more leisure time.

Now, well, Draco saw red; first, literally, then figuratively.

He looked down to see an angry looking splinter jutting from the meat of her shoulder and a few streaks of blood dancing over her skin from some pieces of glass that'd had gotten a taste of her.

A feral sneer curled his lips.

The second cock block of the evening AND someone had damaged his toy before he'd gotten the chance to play with it.

There would be hell to pay.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Thank you, everyone, for reading (and reviewing, of course) our little story of bad people behaving badly. Especially: punkrocksammy, FaeBreeze, Because Banana, Delancey654, haitt, Grovek26, nikki98, lakelady8425, pagyn, my name is mommy, Juju-sama, buttercup88, annaea3077, Honoria Granger, LadiePhoenix007, Rose Davis, ASJS, TheFantabulousPotterHead._

_I promise, we are working on the next chapter…._


	8. Chapter 7

Everyone in this bloody place had wretched timing.

Draco was stalking about the room, having already put out the fires on his balcony and magicked most of the debris off the edge. Hermione was wrapped in one of the only glass-free sheets that hadn't been shredded to bits by the attack on the far side of the room, clutching at her wounded and wrapped shoulder unsteadily.

After the boulder had come through, the arrows had stopped and as quickly as it all started, it seemed as though it was over. When Draco crept free from the makeshift shield, he realized that it wasn't as much of an attack as it was a message. The large-ish rock lay in the center of the bedroom wrapped in a leather skin and when he flicked his wand to move it, he saw the words_ "WELCOME MALFOY"_ stitched into the hide.

He'd unlocked the door and tugged angrily on the cord on the wall and the frantic ringing of the service bell not only drew a smattering of the sleepy eyed help but also his companions. Blaise looked relatively alert, even if he was in his nightclothes, Nott showed up half dressed with his little pet in tow. He was too angry, too livid to really care why he'd brought the chit, and just whirled on them all when they appeared.

"Zabini, what is it you found earlier?"

Blaise was startled at the ferocity in the man's snarl until he got a look at what he'd been sneering at a second ago. Yes, maybe if he hadn't been so interested in shagging Granger, he would have been more prepared for this. Speaking of, where was-

"Malfoy, your girl is bleeding."

Draco's eyes snapped to Theo who was staring rather placidly at the witch as her blood seeped through the makeshift bandage and wet her fingertips. Fuck. Without thinking, he went to one of his bags, rattling around a few vials until he found what he was looking for and was halfway back to the girl when Theo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Dittany? Why waste it?" The man quirked a dark eyebrow and looked to the girl. "You glamour all your whores anyway apparently. If it goes septic and she dies-" He shrugged. "-get another girl."

The blond blinked at Nott as though that possibility never even crossed his mind and pulled his shoulder away from the offending hand, flashing him a menacing look. "I don't _want_ another girl."

Nott snorted. "Honestly Malfoy, your obsession with Granger is bizarre. Maybe you need a new type to break the habit; it'd do you good. How about a blonde with big knockers?"

_A blonde with..._ His sneer grew - if that were even possible - and he shoved past Nott, tossing the vial onto the bed as he snatched up the man's toy, grabbing the woman by his fist in her hair and shoving his wand into her throat in one smooth move.

The girl shrieked and reached for Theo. "Master Nott!"

For his part, Nott seemed unconcerned about her distress and instead wore an openly venomous look trained only on the wizard. "_Don't_ touch my things." His voice was cool and deadly calm.

"What's the matter Nott?" he mocked, "If she dies you can just get another. Maybe a blonde with big-"

"_Gentlemen,"_ Zabini interrupted, sweeping past them both to catch the sluggish body of Malfoy's witch as she tipped off the chair she'd been sitting on. "As amusing as it is to watch you fighting over your little toys, perhaps we should finally have a _real_ discussion about what I found this evening so we can all get some bloody sleep?"

The Italian headed towards the door without further response from either of the other two, snatching up the dittany as he passed and balancing the woozy Granger in his arms.

"Where are you going?" Draco snapped from his spot, still clutching the girl by her hair, though it seemed like he'd forgotten she was even there.

"_Relax_, mate," Blaise shot him a look from the doorway. "I'll patch her up in my room where there's not a chance she'll just roll over into another pile of glass and then send for the medic to have a look so you can have her later. Mine'll keep her company while we have a chat." He paused then, looking at the few servants who were still standing about awkwardly, waiting for instruction, and then to Nott before fixing Draco with a _look._ "Unless you'd prefer alternative care."

The muscles in his shoulders eased slightly and Malfoy's sneer lessened. "Fine. Take..._Evans_ to your quarters. Make it quick."

Draco finally shoved Nott's girl back at her owner. The bint crumpled around her master's feet holding in her frightened sobs while Nott just glared at the blonde.

She was struggling very hard not to make a peep, her shoulders shaking violently at his ankles and after a long, tense moment between him and the commander, Nott's hand reached down for her. Malfoy watched the girl butt her head into the palm of his hand and the man smiled down at her; it was a a vile kind of smile but it seemed to calm her.

"Head back to my room, pet. I'll be back late."

Her head bobbed quickly and she pulled herself to her feet without his help. "Yes, sir, Master Nott."

Malfoy watched her slender form scurry out of his room in disgust - that man certainly worked quickly.

. . . . . . . . .

Blaise dumped Granger on his bed; he knew that this woman, of all the women in the world, wouldn't be trying to ride him to a better life. She'd sooner eat glass rather than just wear it.

His own girl was sitting on the couch, dressed in the new 'finery' she'd wasted no time in getting. She watched him as he ruthlessly picked the glass out of the other woman – there was so much more than he'd thought at first glance. He cast some standard healing spells, smeared her with ointment, made quick work of the wound with a practiced ease.

"What's your name?" he asked without looking at her.

"Marie," she squawked.

"Well, Marie, I want you to go down to the kitchens and bring us up a tray. Miss Evans, here, has had a bit of a shock and she'll need some tea and some soup. And something sweet. Get some for yourself as well."

As soon as the door closed behind the wretched girl Granger opened her eyes and looked at him wearily. Her face had paled visibly and her eyes looked a bit glazed. "Left her naked in your room?" was all she muttered.

"Her dress was filthy," Blaise snapped at the woman. "And I told her to wash it and she didn't have anything else to wear."

"I think," Granger closed her eyes again, head starting to loll to one side, "that I owe you an apology."

"I think you owe me several," he muttered, jostled her a bit until she'd reopened her eyes and was looking at him sleepily. "I have a feeling that the wholly unpleasant trip up here had something to do with you." Blaise looked at her expectantly but she shook her head.

"What happened?"

"Tonight?" he asked, and she nodded. "Well, as far as I can tell you were busy fucking Malfoy – excuse me, _Lord Malfoy_ - when a rock broke the window and you got hit, suffered enough blood loss to get light headed. I pulled you out of his room before Nott got too suspicious. I hope. Fuck. I told the man having you in his room was going to lead to a massive cock up but I didn't think it would happen so fast."

"I'm going to kill…" she trailed off as she caught Blaise's warning glare.

"Don't be so sloppy, Granger." He snapped.

She tensed and returned to a safer topic. "So you aren't…you and the girl, I mean?"

He gave her a disgusted look, tossed a blood soaked cloth aside a little too harshly and grabbed a clean one. "I don't do rape. There hasn't been anyone since," he paused, a haunted look flashing across his features for the briefest of seconds. "Since the world went to hell." Another pause. "Is the message drop yours?"

She gave him a bland look. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Nott's already tweaked that there's something off about you. Get better, Granger, and fast. Be stupid for him, be very, very stupid and maybe he'll forget Malfoy cared enough to try to save the life of a harlot he'd, in theory, just met, or at least he'll chalk it up to Draco's bloody political naiveté. Now," he grabbed her chin none too kindly, his hardened mask well back in place, "is the message drop yours?"

She stared at him, unblinking, until he sneered and let her go at which point she said, "One of them is, but I haven't had a chance to check it today because _Lord Malfoy_ has taken up most of my time."

The sound of hurried steps outside on the stone broke their moment alone.

His girl pushed the door open, came in with her tray. Soup, some bread, some cake. Zabini looked it over almost longingly; it was a hell of a lot more appetizing than what he'd seen at dinner.

"Marie," he nodded at the girl, "take care of Miss Evans, keep her company. I'll let you two know when it's safe to venture out again." He looked at Granger, "Until later, _Miss Evans_?"

"_Lord Zabini_," she nodded her head and he rolled his eyes with clear distaste, though whether at her or his title wasn't wholly clear, before he shut the door and left the two of them alone.

Hopefully, Nott and Malfoy had had enough sense to not kill each other in his absence.

. . . . . . . . .

It had been days since the attack. After hearing what Zabini had to report, they'd all eventually agreed upon a swift and aggressive response to the threat. While the Italian and his dear, _dear_ Lord Malfoy worked to tighten defenses about the castle prior to creating an attack plan, the task of discovering their mole had fallen to him. He was delighted, no, ecstatic, to have the privilege of meeting with the staff, one by one, to have a discussion, a short chat really, with the servants to see what kinds of chatter had filled these halls before their arrival that may have put them in such a position now.

He was in an especially good mood today, having finally had an opportunity to pull the illustrious Miss Evans from her so difficult task of warming the commander's bed.

Theodore Nott leaned back in his chair and looked at the bushy-haired woman in front of him. She had huddled into a dress that showed far less of her than he'd seen on any of his previous encounters with her and still had her arm bandaged.

"That," he waved his hand at her arm, "must limit your ability to do your work."

She looked up at him and for a moment he expected to see her eyes flash; the glamour Malfoy had stuck on her was getting to him and every time the woman didn't act like Hermione Granger he felt oddly startled, like he'd caught something out of the corner of his eye and, when he turned, nothing was there.

He'd learned to pay attention to that feeling. It was unsettling and he detested being unsettled. Something was _off_ about this bint.

Her eyes didn't flash at him, didn't sparkle with the rage and loathing he _expected_ them to have. She just looked terrified and somewhat stupid. "Lord… Lord Malfoy," she stammered, "he said… my mouth, I…."

"Lord Malfoy said something about your mouth?" Theo asked warmly, completely at odds with the cool way he stared at her; he could just imagine what Malfoy had this woman doing with her mouth, and it wasn't talking. Even his own little pet seemed to have more wit than this idiot.

He was actually quite pleased with his little toy; she was coming along nicely.

"He… yes," the woman in front of him blushed, a slow red that crept up her neck and cheeks until her whole face was flushed.

"And what," he prompted her, "did Lord Malfoy say you should do?"

"He said I should answer your questions," she whispered, shivering.

"With your mouth?"

"Yes sir." She was staring at the floor and he took a moment to savor the fear roiling off of her before he stood up and crossed to where she was sitting, lingered at her back. He lifted a lock of that hair – why would Malfoy want women to have _this_ hair? It was just deliberately making the girl less attractive – and then ran his fingers along the back of her neck. Goosebumps prickled to life and she shuddered under his touch but didn't attempt to move away. He let his fingers creep to the front of her neck and felt her tense as he rested them along her throat. Her heartbeat hammered against his thumb like a trapped little bird and, oh, was that _exquisite_. He swirled the pad of it sensually over her pulse, delighting when it sped even more at the caress.

"Well, Miss Evans, as I'm sure even you were unable to miss, we had a slight breach in castle security the other night."

"Yes, sir," she swallowed hard and he felt the movement under this fingers. God, her fear was making him hard. He might need a break after this one.

"I'm speaking to all the staff," he continued, taking his other hand to twist some of her hair around his fist and admire the way it looked there with lidded eyes. "Clearly, someone knew we were coming. Did you?"

"There were," she stumbled over the words, "there were rumors. People talking before you arrived."

"And what did those rumors say?"

"That… that a new commander was coming." She swallowed again. "That his name was Malfoy. Lord Malfoy, I'm so sorry, so sorry," she started to babble. "I'll do better. I'll remember."

He tugged on her hair, not especially hard as such things went, but she still gasped. "Still having trouble with Lord Malfoy's title, are you?"

"It makes him so angry," she whispered and Nott laughed.

"Well, as fascinating as I'm sure it would be to explore the myriad ways Lord Malfoy has enjoined you to remember his proper title, time is fleeting and I shall have to stick to the subject at hand. Did the rumors say anything else?"

"Your name, sir," she didn't take her eyes off the floor, even with her head held back by the leash of her hair, and he tugged on that hair again and she added, and Master Zabini's name." She swallowed again and then added. "Cook said Mal…Lord Malfoy was young. There was… there was questions whether he'd be cute." She tried to turn her head to look at him at that but he didn't let her and she began to cry. "We didn't mean no harm, sir. It was just idle..."

"Yes, well," he gave her hair one last hard yank and let her go. The release of the force holding back startled her so much she almost fell out of her seat; after she'd stabilized herself she tentatively put her hands up to her head and, when he didn't stop her, rubbed at her scalp.

Nott was looking at the stands of her hair that had come off in his hand; bushy, ratty, chestnut colored strands. He narrowed his eyes and then asked, "What did you think of divination? I always wanted to ask you."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Hermione huddled lower in her seat. "I dunna understand, sir?"

"No? You don't have any opinions on the ancient and noble art of divination, Miss Evans?"

"My mam used to read the tea leaves," she whispered, "but she never predicted nothing you couldn't have known anyway. My da said you don't need tea leaves to know it'll snow in winter."

"How did these lovely parents, your 'mam' and 'da', educate you?" he watched her, heard her speech break into something even less refined in her fear. He scanned her body with his eyes trying to spot a crack in that idiot façade.

"I can read," she muttered defensively. "And do sums. 'snot my fault they died and I's on my own."

"And yet," he purred, "as a woman educated at home, who holds up literacy as an educational accomplishment to be proud of, you know what dysentery is?" She dared to look up at him at that and he had this charming, perplexed look on his face. If she didn't know he was an evil bastard she'd think he was some kind of clever academic, worrying over an interesting, but ultimately trivial, problem.

She just stared at him blankly because, bloody fucking hell, what was she supposed to say to that.

"No matter," he shrugged suddenly. "I'm sure you just repeated something you overheard without really understanding it. So… I'm assuming 'Cook' was the lovely woman with the sore on her mouth?"

"Wuh, was?" she gasped in very real shock. Had he actually murdered that woman?

"Is, technically, I suppose," he amended sourly, "though her days of working with food are certainly numbered. A trifle heavy-set, slovenly, free with her, err, affections?" Theo Nott smiled at the woman in front of him.

"I…," she looked down again, her hands twisting in her lap. "Yes, sir. That's the one."

"Did you like working in the kitchen, Miss Evans?"

"I weren't really allowed to do any cooking," she stared at her feet. "I just carried scraps out to the pigs, mostly."

"Do you prefer fucking Lord Malfoy?"

"It's…." she hesitated, choosing the words carefully, "it's nice to be clean, sir."

"I'll make sure to pass along your ringing endorsement of his techniques," he snorted in not so secret amusement at the girl's evident displeasure at having to bed the commander as his little toy.

He'd come to the conclusion that, whoever this idiot woman was, she wasn't what – wasn't _who_ - he'd briefly suspected she was. That made him slightly sad because the idea of the real Granger carrying slop to the pigs and willing to fuck her schoolyard nemesis for a bath was truly delightful. Still, one can't have everything, and her palpable fear was nevertheless quite a treat.

"Someday, Miss Evans, when Malfoy has grown tired of you, I would love to have an hour with you. Alone." He ran the backs of his knuckles over her cheek with a very clear indication of the kinds of plans he had for her shimmering in his dark eyes.

She paled and he laughed.

"Send the next girl in."

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise Zabini stood in the courtyard, Malfoy next to him, watching their men clean the place up with ruthless efficiency. The pile of bodies was burning, four men were rehanging the postern gate and more were dismantling the crumbling building while a stream of drudges, working considerably faster than they had been on the day the men had arrived, relocated the last of the salvaged supplies.

Malfoy's focus was going between the men – some soldiers from the castle, it seemed, not his – slapping, what he surmised to be, new mortar for reinforcing the gate frame in lines on top of the salvageable bricks and the lot clearing the debris from the destroyed half of the main house. They worked quickly, more efficiently than before, but still too sloppily for his tastes. The difference between his men and the ones stationed here before were like night and day. It was no wonder this all fell so easily the first time, even with a mole on the inside. He wouldn't be caught so vulnerable again.

"Keep it clean, you sorry sods!" he barked at the lot of them, "Don't give me a reason to come over there to supervise!" Even at this distance, he could see the color drain from most of their faces and he snorted, turned to the dark man at his side. "How many of those worthless whores do you think are actually in the local resistance?" Malfoy asked and Zabini shrugged.

"Fewer than you think, probably. Nott should ferret out – if you'll excuse the turn of phrase – any potential risks. I doubt any of them have the strength to resist that bastard's questions. Not sure I would, to be honest."

Malfoy grunted and ticked his head towards the morbid statue garden and both men walked towards the blood stained satyrs. He frowned, almost glaring at the way they were in mid-frolic, a leg kicked up in a happy jaunt and their eyes chiseled to be staring straight at him so merrily with their flat, goat-like pupils. His lip turned up and he moved around those to a less disturbing doe sculpture. "We need to get rid of these; fuck, but they give me the creeps."

"You just lack appreciation for their artistic merit."

"Hardly," he scoffed, "I grew up surrounded by statuary. These are third rate at best." Malfoy trailed a hand over the rough, poorly sculpted back of a fawn and looked sideways at his old friend. "Which I'd expect you to see."

Zabini shrugged, digging out a rock from the still overgrown grass – that would be the next project – with the toe of his boot. "Maybe Nott would like that one," he gestured at one that was probably meant to depict Apollo molesting Daphne, even as she turned herself into a tree.

Draco Malfoy choked back a laugh, the mirth a trifle too out of place in such a morbid garden. "I take it you don't care for him either?"

"He's fucking batshit crazy," Zabini said flatly.

Malfoy turned to look back at the workers; they were hustling and bustling faster than he'd seen any of them move before. He took a moment to appreciate the motivation that fear and the simple threat of things less permanent than death accomplished, filing it away for future use should he tire of his more direct approach. "He did get those worthless drudges to pick up the pace."

Zabini nodded, looking to the workers as well with the barest of frowns tugging the edges of his mouth. "To answer your original question, no, I don't think many of the staff are actually involved with the resistance. A handful is all you'd need. A couple of people to pass on information independently so you can cross check, people who will leave doors unlocked and not ask questions. I think that's the most you're going to find internally, that and a willingness to look the other way on the part of just about everyone."

"These people are pathetic," Malfoy crossed his arms. Their men already had the gate mostly rehung and while the strench of the pyre with the burning bodies hung in the air the place already looked more like a military outpost and less like a clusterfuck.

"Walk with me," Zabini said, running a hand discreetly under his nostrils to chase away the disturbing smell of burnt human flesh.

The blonde nodded and the two started towards the door to the main building. Zabini waited until they'd crossed through the threshold before he continued in a lower, more private tone.

"We need to set up patrols and lock this place down. I want to control every bit of information that goes in and out."

"What are you thinking?" Malfoy asked, watching with some amusement and no small measure of respect as the Italian walked with confidence through the halls, taking turns and strides without ever having to look forward, the man's eyes wholly on the walls and doorways they passed.

"We need to find every intel drop. I think I have a lead on someone who can point them all out to me – and, no," He held a hand up before the blonde could speak, took another sudden turn down a hall. "I'm not telling you or Nott who that person is yet so don't even fucking ask."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and Zabini shrugged. "If you don't spend your time playing hide the sausage with your maid it's amazing what you can accomplish."

"I was a little more interested in why you don't want to tell me your contact."

Zabini tried not to laugh; that was so much funnier than Malfoy knew. Controlling himself he said, "Because you'd probably be over-enthusiastic in your bad cop role. And Nott, well, his idea of 'working with the locals' involves torturing people until he gets just enough information to climb one more step up the ladder. I need to, what's the word, seduce? Lure into feeling comfortable? Not threaten."

"Are you saying I'm threatening? I'm hurt." Malfoy snickered, having fallen into a comfortable stride by his old mate now, remembering days when they walked a different set of halls together and weren't talking about anything more serious than the next Quidditch match.

Zabini shook his head. "Anyway, jackass, I want to locate all the drops and start monitoring them. If I were running the local operation, like I said, I'd have multiple people sending me info and I'd cross-check it. I want to get a sense of how it flows out and then start falsifying to suit whatever buggering operation you've got in mind."

The men crossed into the back part of the building and Zabini led the blond down the same series of corridors they'd come in their first night, stopping at the junction where he'd first seen Granger. "Down here is where I found the first drop. I'm not walking you there; I don't want to alert anyone." He looked at Malfoy who appeared as though he wanted to protest. "I mean it, wonder boy, play it subtle for once. Don't go tromping all around and scaring off the birds we want to catch in our nets."

Malfoy nodded after a long pause. "I'll play it your way, Zabini…for now."

Blaise stared down the hall, felt the other man's eyes on him. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, mulling over a million different things he wanted to say in that instant but finally decided on a vague, cautionary piece of advice.

"Malfoy, be careful with your toy," Zabini hesitated, then added, "the war…it's been hard on all of us, but anyone who survived the purges of the other side – her side – is hiding scars, bad ones."

Draco Malfoy studied him, no expression on his face. Finally, turning to walk down the hall again, he said, "I didn't know you knew her well."

"We had friends in common." His response was immediate, cold, shuttered.

"That surprises me." Malfoy watched his old friend matching him stride for stride, gaze finally set forward on their path yet still focused somewhere else entirely; he wasn't even sure the man was still with him in that moment until he spoke, just as frigidly as before.

"Yes, well, I suspect a lot of things about that one are going to surprise you."

There was another long pause, then, "What aren't you telling me?"

"So many things that I doubt I can remember them all." The honest answer left him in a sigh and he stopped, motioned down the hall that would take him back to the King's Suite in as polite a suggestion as he could muster to the man that was technically his superior in this outfit. "Go do your paperwork, Malfoy. Write up a patrol schedule. Go over Nott's interrogation reports. Decide what misinformation you want to leak to the rebels. Just… think about what I've said. All of it."

And the dark man walked down the hallway, not waiting for a response or dismissal.

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione felt like she'd never get clean again.

She felt the press of Nott's hands on her, on her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, wrapped in her hair; her scalp still ached from where he'd pulled her hair. That memory of pain only served to stir the memory of his questions. When he'd ripped the hair from her head, she knew, in that very second, she was dead. He must have noticed that it didn't revert back to a different color, or texture, or _anything_ because there wasn't anything to revert back _to._

Hermione scrubbed at her flesh, already pink from the scalding bath water, she swiped the coarse loofah - a gift for the Lord's mistress... - over and over and over it all again, turning it redder by the second.

If she could just get everything he'd touched clean maybe she'd feel safe. She'd made the mistake of feeling safe for just a minute with Malfoy, thinking his obsession would give her a resting spot where she could be for a while. Be fed and warm and clean for at least a little while.

It's amazing how your standards of what constituted a good life could change.

She was never going to be clean again. She was never going to be safe again. Never. Nevernevernevernevernever.

Still trembling from what she was sure had been a very real brush with her own demise, her mind was everywhere but the far stone brick her glazed eyes stared at.

He would find her. He would find out it was her. If he discovered her here, there was nothing Malfoy would be able to do to keep her safe - _if_ he even cared to bother. Sure, he acted like he wanted to keep her around, but he didn't actually care, not really; he just wanted some sick fantasy fuck and - _fuck_, she hadn't even had sex with the git yet. What if Nott found out? Found out that they'd lied to him... that she'd lied to him. He didn't seem like someone that appreciated being lied to.

She thought again about what he'd said, about having an hour alone with her.

She thought about being skinned alive.

She thought about the dead eyes of her friends as their heads rolled across a courtyard. She thought about the spread of entrails and smell of loosed bowels from the corpses. She thought about her face just joining that pile.

She thought about that girl he sometimes hauled around, the way she looked at him, and shuddered. She never thought she'd thank god she'd been sent to Malfoy's room but..

Hermione swallowed back the bile, _and scrubbed. _Maybe if she could just clean away the feel of Nott's touch she might feel safe again, for just a few minutes. She sometimes thinks she'd sell her soul to feel safe; wonders if that's not exactly what she's already tried to do.

That was how Draco found her.

The blonde entered the room and, as was becoming habit, tossed his things to the desk and locked the door behind him - fool me once...

He saw her naked body, something he'd not been able to get much of recently with the sudden commotion, sitting in a basin by the fire, back to the chamber doors. His irritation, already at about a seven for the day, climbed to an eight. Christ, he'd ordered her to stay with Zabini's little mouse; even captivity and injury couldn't make her do as she was told.

"Granger," he said, stomping without care to the basin, "What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told y-the _FUCK_?" His hand jerked back as soon as he caught sight of what she was sitting in, what she was covered in.

The witch flinched, almost coming back to herself, standing suddenly, almost slipping and falling. She turned, loofah held out in front of her like she were going to stab him with it. It would've been funny, seeing a naked and wet Hermione Granger trying to defend herself with a sponge on a stick. It would've been very funny indeed if she hadn't been standing there with rivulets of red water streaming down her body.

She was shivering, barely holding herself upright, skin rubbed raw and her wound reopened. Draco's eyes darted to her arm then to the sloshing pink water and back. It wasn't as bad as before, not nearly so, but she'd done a number on herself with the now literally bloody sponge.

When his gaze caught hers again, he could see, clearly, that she wasn't quite all there. In fact, that look was something he remembered too well from his early days in this new order. "Granger," he tried again sourly, not used to placating. When she still didn't budge from that defensive stance, he scowled at her. "Granger, for fuck's sake, put the bloody sponge away, you stupid bitch!"

It happened in a heartbeat, maybe two. She was gone and then she blinked and she was back. He saw her realize where she was, realize she was naked in the bath, holding a sponge at him like she could protect herself with it. She cursed under her breath and dropped the loofah into the bath, yelping in shock when the water splashed up onto her bare thighs.

"_Fuck,_" Hermione said, searching for where she'd put the towel, not sure that she even grabbed one before she sunk into this damned thing. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the weight of a fluffy cloth dropped onto her shoulders and Draco stepped away to examine her with a narrowed glare as she stepped out of the basin and wrapped the thing around her.

"Do you always have random war flashbacks in the middle of the day when you're supposed to be making nice with the help, pet?"

A brief moment of surprise crossed her features at his dead on - _snide_, but dead on - assessment. She shook her head, her curls painting a morbid kind of pink picture around the cloth nearest to her neck and replied with a humourless chuckle. "Only when something decidedly wretched triggers them."

His head tilted, noting that she didn't rebuff the endearment and also that she was clutching that towel so tightly it looked like she were wishing to disappear. That bit wasn't surprising by itself, but she had been reasonably comfortable with him, reasonably _well_, that morning when he'd left her. Draco's eyes raked over her again, the fearful look in her face, the shivering, how skittish she was acting, everything there just screamed of one thing-

"Nott."

Hermione's head snapped his way, eyes wide, and skin blanching immediately as she instinctively searched for the owner of that name.

He'd just jumped clear past eight on the irritated – hell, pissed off - meter and gone straight to ten.

"He fucking interrogated you." It wasn't a question, but if it _were_,he'd already know the answer to it from the look on her face. "I told him to wait. I _ordered_ him to wait. The fucking blighter, I'll take the piss out of his bloody arrogant arse!"

He was turning, leaving, angry again, completely livid, but he was stopped in his stride by a hand clutching at the back of his shirt and he shot an acidic look over his shoulder.

"Don't! Malfoy-_Lord_ Malfoy," she amended at his scowl, "He's already suspicious. H-he...well I don't think he knows." She wished she felt as good about those words as she wanted to. "But...if you approach him about it...just _please._"

It was the _please_ that finally did it. Draco was fairly sure she'd never said please to him before in her life. Draco faced her, plucking her hand from his shirt and looming over her in that way he often seemed to do. He was still angry, furious, at the other man's disregard for his authority, but he calmed some looking down at this sodden little witch.

Her hair was dark and matted with the blood-water mixture and her body, from what he could see, was still pink; some of the liquid looked to be on its way to drying into a thin layer of color. Her skin, he knew, was mostly smooth and soft, not marred in hash marks of scars like his own - not nearly as many anyway. He thought about what Blaise had said.

'Be careful.'

He wondered what scars she was hiding behind the eyes that were looking to him as if he were her last vestige of safety in this horrid place – hell, he probably was. It was hard to think of her as a person with fears and worries, hard to think of her as more than a long-held fantasy finally in front of him in the flesh. As the fierce witch he'd always known shivered in front of him, finally rattled in a way that had her pleading him for…for _anything_, he found it ever so slightly easier.

His head tilted to one side, examining her, then, "What would you have me do?"

She seemed surprised by the question and tugged at her lip in genuine thought, so off kilter from the recent events she missed the way he stared at her.

"...stay?"

They both seemed a bit surprised at that.

He nodded, briefly, and then turned away from her, no longer able to look at that searching, pink face of hers. He found more bandages, more ointment, with efficiency that had been learned through hard and varied mischance, and snapped, "Come here."

Hermione watched him, holding the towel up around herself, still shivering with cold and fear. His eyes remained hard, his tone unkind, but his hands were gentle and careful as he attended to her reopened wound. She hissed at a particularly firm yank and he eased the pressure even more, his palm smoothing over the layers of the new bandages in a warm and intimate kind of way. His touch lingered there and when she looked to check his progress, she found him staring at her, eyes dark as storm clouds with a tightly controlled something smoldering there.

"I don't like people breaking my toys," he finally said. "Not even you."

She nodded, too exhausted, too confused by his mixture of 'harsh' then 'gentle' behavior to tell him she wasn't a toy. She figured, with numb resignation, that he'd order her back to the bed; that the price for his company would be sex. Instead, he looked her up and down and frowned.

"Get dressed, Granger, before you catch your fucking death."

She stood there, stupidly, staring at him until he swore and plucked a skirt and blouse out of the closet. Still stood there, as he held them out to her, then stood there, unresisting, as he dressed her, carefully taking the towel away from her and pulling the skirt over her head and down around her hips, then sliding the sleeves of the blouse over her arms one at a time.

"What," he asked with deliberate calm as he fastened the buttons, "did that bastard do to you?"

"He asked me what I thought about divination," she whispered. "Said he'd always meant to ask me."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

"I think I fooled him. I played so stupid, so very, very stupid." She was starting to shake again and with little thought he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against his chest and felt her shudder and bury her face into him, her hands clutched at the fabric of his shirt. "Mentioning dysentery was a mistake." She shook her head, slowly at first, then more frantically as she chastised herself. "He fucking _knew _something was off because of that. Me and my fucking mouth." She was starting to come out of it again, starting to talk to him. "Never going to be clean again," she muttered. "I'm never going to be able to get the feel of his hands off of me."

He stilled at that. _His hands?_ What the fuck? His blood boiled at the implications and it took great restraint to not growl his question.

"What did he do?"

"He," she shivered against him, "nothing much. Not really. He put his hand on my throat while he was talking to me. He pulled my hair. Pulled some of it out." She hiccupped. "Said he wanted an hour alone with me when you were tired of me."

Draco snorted at that, calmed somewhat again, but only just so. "Well, that's never going to happen." He nudged her towards the bed. "Get in. Get some sleep. When you wake up we can return to the 'fucking you' portion of the program but for right now I'll pass on your charms."

As he sat down at the desk to make out schedules and ponder who Zabini's contact was he heard her say, "Thanks, Malfoy."

"Lord Malfoy," he responded automatically. Then, "for what?"

She opened her mouth, the words frozen on her tongue.

_For not being a monster for ten minutes._

Hermione swallowed, shook her head, and nestled under the blankets and said quietly, "For staying."

She heard only his grunt of acknowledgement and was lulled to sleep by the aftermath of her faded adrenaline and the soothing sounds of a quill scratching across parchment.

. . . . . . . .

When she woke up the room was almost dark; Malfoy had lit the lamp at his desk and the flickering light made his hair glow, highlighted the planes of his face. She watched him working from the bed as she took everything that had happened to her that day and boxed it up inside her head.

Nott went into one box, shoved down, lid on, wrapped in layers of packing tape and shelved inside her head. If she were lucky she'd never unpack those emotions or experiences again.

Malfoy… she shoved that away too. Better not to think too much about - not to read too much into – a brief interlude where he wasn't awful.

She hated that she could even feel a flicker of gratitude that he'd treated her like a human being, that _that_ was even something to feel gratitude for anymore.

"I can feel you staring at me," he said, not turning to look at her.

Of course he could. Battlefield instincts. Most people had a sense when someone was looking at them; people who survived wars tended to have honed that to a razor's edge. She shrugged, then flinched at the pain in her shoulder. "You're pretty," she said, sitting up.

He flicked her a glance, then let his eyes linger as she started to unbutton the blouse he'd so gently put on her earlier. "What are you doing, Granger?"

"Well," she drawled with more confidence than she felt, "So far we've been interrupted by Zabini and by flying rocks. Maybe the third time's the charm?"

"You're still covered in a layer of your own blood," he said, but he was standing, putting his quill down, walking towards the bed, towards her with an appreciative look.

"So?" She cocked her head to the side. "Get me dirtier and then we can order another bath, get cleaned off together."

Her blouse hung freely, the curves of her breasts peeking from the edge of the opening for him to enjoy. He'd shown her a moment of humanity, yes, but that didn't erase all that'd happened. They needed to make good on this arrangement, sooner rather than later, or that foul man would find out and she wasn't sure that even Malfoy's wrath would save her if that snake discovered he'd been made a fool. It wasn't his business, of course, if they were fucking or not, but he would make it his, and she'd seen enough of the man to know she had no desire to be in his sights for attack. And, the sooner they began, the more reason Malfoy would have to keep her – _she would make sure he had a reason to keep her._

"Shaken off your trauma, I take it?" He was reaching down to tug off his boots as she unhooked her skirt, started to pull it down over her hips. "Let me do that," he snapped. "You're mine to undress."

"Possessive much?"

"Since it's to your benefit, I wouldn't complain." He was pulling his own shirt off but still couldn't fail to miss how she tensed at that comment. He rolled his eyes. "Granger, I'm not going to toss you to that rotter."

"I…"

"Lie down," he ordered and, when she complied, he began tugging her skirt down, trailing his lips over her stomach as she'd done nights before. Her belly twitched at the tickle of his unshaven whiskers over her so smooth skin. "I think," he muttered in a very convincing tone as he lowered his mouth to her, that entrancing mewling noise she made causing him to tighten his grip on her hips, "you aren't well enough to come to dinner with us tonight, you should have Zabini's mouse fetch you both something from the kitchens instead."

She nodded, felt another flash of gratitude, and not for what his remarkably talented tongue was doing to her. She twined her fingers in that pale hair of his, head tossing to the side and back arching with his attentions; she gasped out loud even as she wondered – worried about - why he was being even a little considerate.

. . . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. Lakelady8425, thfourteenth, nikki98, MorningSnow03, Grovek26, Locutus, ASJS, my name is mommy, FaeBreeze, LadiePhoenix007, Rose Davis._

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and __lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	9. Chapter 8 - The Play's the Thing

Draco slammed the door and locked it, tossed his things onto his desk with a deep scowl.

Dinner with Nott was as close to hell as he personally cared to experience, and his life since the Battle of Hogwarts hadn't exactly been a pleasure cruise. The man insinuated and implied and made coy references to his mother and to his war record, all the while feeding that girl by hand. Zabini had simply ignored the girl's existence and he'd decided to follow the other man's lead lest he become too bothered by her presence.

He'd stared at the man across the table, hating him, wishing he could find some way for him to have a convincing accident. He was a disgusting man; batshit crazy, Zabini had said, and Malfoy wondered if that barely began to cover it. He's _your_ viper, his commander had said. Find a way to use him, the man had said.

Malfoy wasn't sure that was possible, especially when all he wanted to do was pummel the bastard. How _dared_ the man terrorize Granger. She was _his. _He'd dreamt of her for years, of conquering her, of being conquered by her, of finally proving himself to her, and now that she's finally in his grasp, finally his, that fucking Nott goes and breaks her.

He looked for her, muscles relaxing when he caught sight of her; she'd left her dinner tray by the fire only partially emptied and fallen asleep in his bed.

She was in _his bed _goddammit. _His. _She was _his. _

Draco poured himself a drink and sat and stared at her. He was no fool and, as much fun as he'd had with her before dinner, he's quite sure that her seduction had had a lot more to do with protecting herself from Nott than any real interest in him. Trust Granger to embrace being a whore with as much dedication and enthusiasm as she'd ever brought to bear on scholarship.

He raised his glass towards her sleeping body before taking a pull. "You're good, Granger. I have to give you that." She'd been responsive, passionate and bloody loud. One thing she wasn't was inexperienced, that was for damn sure. He couldn't remember when he'd had such a good time in bed.

So, why was he feeling not quite satisfied?

If he wanted her, all he had to do was wake her. She'd swear at him, which would just turn him on more, then wring another orgasm or two from him. She'd give her body over to him to do with whatever he wanted. Every fantasy he'd ever had he could enact; he could put her back in that tantalizing uniform and act as though they were back in Charms, maybe Professor's robes instead, or something more likely to be found in his crazy aunt's wardrobe. He could work through them all _tonight _if he felt like it_. _He was only limited by his own bloody endurance.

Why the fuck wasn't that enough? Why did he feel a niggling hurt that she didn't actually want him?

Why did it bother him that behind all the pretty moans, her mind - that brilliant, calculating mind that he'd tested himself against for years - didn't care about him as anything other than a knife she could hold between herself and Nott?

He walked over the bed and smoothed her hair, looked down at her, drink in his other hand. She shifted uneasily under his stroking hand but didn't wake, which surprised him. He'd pegged her as having a soldier's instincts; being this deeply asleep was dangerous unless you could really trust the person you were with and he highly doubted she trusted him. He tweaked down the coverlet and looked at what she had on. She was in his shirt. Not, of course, the fucking silk negligee he'd left her with the 'suggestion' she wear it for him. No, she'd disobey trivial orders just to piss him off, that much was clear. Still, under his irritation that nothing could get this woman to do what she was told, he was pleased to see her tucked into his shirt even if he were mostly – but not wholly - sure it was a manipulative ploy.

Maybe, a small voice in his head whispered, she felt irrationally safer in your shirt. She did ask you to stay earlier. Maybe, just maybe, you're a tiny bit more than a weapon. It would be something if that were true.

"I'll make you want me, you stupid mudblood bitch," he muttered as he finished the drink and stared at her.

. . . . . . . .

Hermione sighed, leaned against the windowsill and sipped at her tea.

She was bored. Being bored was… dangerous. She hadn't had time to sit, time to do nothing but think, for a long time. Though thinking, maybe, was a generous word for what she doing. Brooding. Wondering what to do next. She'd been stuck in a routine for days, locked away first in Malfoy's room and then in Zabini's.

She knew she should be grateful to be spared dinner with Nott and she was. She really was. But… Christ, she was bored.

Every night it had been the same. A round or three with Malfoy where, more often than not, he would make her take the lead. She tried to turn her mind off, to just be a collection of nerve endings and not think about how much she was enjoying him, how very good he was – how very good he was _at her_. She'd never had a lover who was so focused on her; he paid attention to every sound she made, every twitch. He knew her body by now, knew it, she suspected, as well as he knew the feel of his wand in his hand.

It was intoxicating to have someone pay _that much attention_.

Intoxicating, and a little frightening.

She knew he wasn't saving her from those dinners with Nott out a sense of concern for her feelings. The very idea made her snort where she sat, leaning up against the window of her prison. He just wanted to possess her, didn't even want Nott looking at her. This was a fucking zenana was what this was, and she and… whoever this other girl was, Zabini's girl… were locked away not for their own safety but to keep Nott's eyes off of them.

Well, Zabini might actually care about the girl's safety. God knows he had learned the hard way the cost of not keeping people safe.

She looked at the mousy woman whose company she'd been keeping for days but had barely spoken to. She was sitting at Zabini's desk, eating her meal awkwardly. "Marie."

The girl's head snapped up, her fork nearly clattering to the plate.

Hermione sighed, pulled a smile to the surface with a bit of a struggle. "Your name _is_ Marie, right?"

Her head bobbed once, first a bit unsure, then a few more times more steadily. "Yes, Miss."

She studied the girl from her perch at the window, unconsciously weighing the girl's usefulness and chance of survival in this world. Hermione knew she was being incredibly rude; she was in this girl's space, such as it was, and could barely be bothered to talk to her. She cringed, for a moment, imagining what her mother would have said to her about that.

Not, of course, that her mother really would have had the frame of reference necessary to have a good grasp on what the appropriate social niceties were from one slave to another. Still, she could try to behave as though they were in a sane world. It could be… practice… for when the world stopped being this way.

If the world ever stopped being this way. She had to believe that the world _would_ stop being this way or there was no point in even trying.

Hermione smiled again, a bit more genuinely this time. "Call me Helen."

Marie smiled back, cautiously, "Of course Miss Helen_._"

Hermione pushed off from the window to approach the girl, almost expecting her to skitter off like an actual mouse given how on edge she was. She girl probably expected her to be as… off as Nott's girl was, what with being Malfoy's mistress.

"_Just_ Helen," she corrected patiently and settled herself closer, on the edge of the couch.

"Helen." The girl nodded again, marginally more comfortable.

A strained silence stretched between them, one Hermione barely noticed as odd or awkward after so many days spent silent and watchful. Marie wasn't nearly as comfortable with it.

"You...y-you know Master Zabini?"

She was surprised by the question. "Well we have, umm,entertained the gentlemen, using the word loosely, for-"

"No," Marie said sharply then hunched back in on herself, embarrassed, "From... from before?"

Her surprise shifted to something much more suspicious, more guarded. Her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think that, Marie?"

She glanced up at Hermione and back to her feet, starting to wring her hands, her nerves causing her to stutter more. "I- I- I just... he's comfortable...around you."

Comfortable? That was a ludicrous idea. Zabini, no matter how nice he may have been to either her or this girl, would know not to be 'comfortable' around her. She relaxed a little, a very little. "He's one of the officers here, he has no reason to-"

"No," she said again, quietly, less firmly than before and still staring at her feet.

The silence dragged between them again. Hermione studied her, lips thinning to a fine line before she asked, "What did you do before -" she gestured around them, "-_this, _Marie?"

The girl smiled faintly but didn't look up, just shook her head. "Always this, Mis-_H-Helen_...always just this."

Marie blinked up at her carefully and, for the first time, Hermione got the true measure of the other girl. She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't a spy. She wasn't anything but a girl... a _girl _who had _survived_.

Marie was a survivor.

The role Hermione played every day, the act she put on, always looking for a way out, always looking for an escape, that role was Marie's life. Marie was the real thing, without even a safety net of hope. She was the tree that bent with the wind because that's what had kept her alive.

Hermione had seen a lot of proud oak trees fall. She'd learned, since Hogwarts, to appreciate the supple birch.

This girl, she didn't have fancy spells or a good education or war experience. She'd stayed alive by means of instinct and will and, perhaps, a certain amount of luck. Hermione realized she'd just dismissed her as fodder and that stunned her; her face must have shown something because the girl's eyes widened and she stood, her hands out, placating the newest predator to cross her path.

"I wouldn't say anything. I- I... I won't say anything... I...I can just see it," she mumbled, eyes glazing off to the side before snapping back up more solidly with an odd kind of determination. "I won't say anything. Master Zabini, he's... he's been kind to me. I wouldn't..."

Hermione blinked, several times, processing; the girl had evidently been watching her and Zabini, probably since the night she was brought in to be patched up. She'd also apparently managed to concoct some notion – surely wrong - as to the nature of the 'relationship' she'd had in the past with him. Shit. She'd not only been so careless Malfoy had identified her within _moments _and Nott knew something was off about her, but she hadn't even properly fooled the fucking staff.

She'd lost her touch. Something in her, maybe, had broken at last beyond repair and she couldn't quite do it anymore, couldn't quite keep the role going. Roles. Not the role of idiot servant, not the role of low-level spy. She'd better get damn good at the role of King's Mistress, and fast. How much did she need Malfoy to care about her to ensure his protection from Nott? How long would that protection last? Could she trust him to really make good on his end of their unholy deal? And when – WHEN – would he hand over what he'd promised?

Hermione swallowed, tried to remember to breathe, swallowed again, then she felt the soft press of the girl against her shoulder, causing her to jump. Marie was looking at her with worried, earnest eyes.

"I won't tell... I won't, Miss Helen... I just… he's been kind to me."

Hermione searched her worried gaze, held it for a time and then turned her eyes downward to her own feet, for the first time since she'd arrived to this cesspit, at a complete loss for what to say. She felt that soft touch again, a fluttering of fingertips over her hair and she didn't flinch away this time. When it was obvious she wasn't going to react so harshly again, Marie's simple stroking of her hair gained confidence and she scooted so the sides of their legs butted against each other on the small couch.

"...was he always kind?"

Chocolate eyes turned to see her staring with that kind, but careful look. Her eyes... they were a startling bright brown that made her heart constrict. She shuddered out a sigh, shut her own briefly against a memory and when she opened them again, she felt more like herself than she had in a long while. God. Was it possible she might risk indulging in an actual friendship?

"No." Marie started to look disappointed and so she found herself adding, "but before the end... yes, he was. He was... he was very kind."

Hermione pulled out a novel she'd begged Malfoy to get her. Anything, she'd said, anything to pass the time. I'm so bored I may lose my mind. He'd smiled at her, disgustingly, obviously pleased that she had to ask him for so much as a book, but he'd come back and casually tossed this one at her. She wasn't sure whether he'd just grabbed the first book that came to hand or whether the choice was some kind of subtle knife twist. Badly written, it followed the story of a male Veela searching for his mate; there was stalking and angst interwoven with ineptly rendered scenes of explicit sex. Hermione was fairly sure some of the things the author had the couple doing were not biologically possible; no one could be that limber. This, apparently, was what passed as a 'bodice ripper' in the magical world.

Hermione really missed Muggle novels.

"You can read," Marie looked at her with something resembling awe; apparently "Helen Evans" literacy really wasn't something that was universal in this backwater hell.

"You can't?" Hermione asked gently, and when the girl shook her head she added, "would you like me to read it out loud to you?"

They sat that way for a while, Hermione reading the ridiculous book and Marie listening in obvious, rapt enjoyment. There were, Hermione thought as she turned a page, worse ways to spend an afternoon. Maybe she could have Marie ask Zabini to find more books; she didn't want to owe the man any favors herself but maybe he'd do it to keep his little mouse entertained. After all, he was apparently 'kind' these days.

When the door opened, both women nearly jumped. When they saw it was Nott, both froze. He was standing there, his peculiar girl a little behind him. The dark haired man smiled at them both, a toothy, casual smile that made Hermione involuntarily shrink back into the couch. Nott, damn him, didn't miss that and she saw him, almost imperceptibly, lick his lips.

"Nice to see you, Miss Evans," he nodded at her with perfect, false courtesy and she shuddered but stammered out, "M…Master Nott," and nodded back at him. He smiled, a slow smiled that made his eyes narrow with what looked like anticipation before he turned to the girl who still stood slightly behind him, her eyes cast down.

"Pet, do stay with these lovely ladies for a bit. I have work to do and you are, I'm afraid, too much of a delightful distraction. Behave yourself while I'm gone, mmm?" He chucked her under the chin and she looked up at him, her wide eyes shining and she nodded. "Let me hear your pretty voice, pet," he encouraged.

"Yes sir, Master Nott," she was still looking at him as though she couldn't get enough of his face and Hermione had the sudden, horrifying thought the girl wasn't allowed to look up from the floor very often. "I'll behave."

"I'm sure you will," he bent forward to kiss her cheek and then he was gone.

When the door shut Hermione sagged back and she and Marie exchanged glances.

"Why don't you come sit with us," Hermione invited, patting the remaining space at the couch. She was determined to treat this girl with the same courtesy she was showing Marie.

The girl shook her head. "I'm supposed to stay on the floor."

"Okay," Hermione drew the word out, looking back at Marie who'd blanched a bit. "Why don't you come sit on the floor near us then?" She watched as the girl tilted her head, thought about it a long second, and appeared to find that an acceptable behavior in the absence of her Master's instruction.

Once the girl had settled, tucking her feet under her and looking down at her knees, Hermione offered her some tea. After the floor comment she wasn't that surprised that the girl shook her head. "Does he not allow you to eat?" she asked in some disgust.

"Master Nott takes care of me," the girl replied, still looking down.

"I'm glad he's kind," Marie finally offered, trying to deflate the tension making Hermione's hair bristle even more than normal. "Master Zabini has been very kind to me."

"Kind?" the girl looked up with surprise.

Marie and Hermione exchanged glances again. "Kind," Hermione said slowly. "He got her more clothes, a safe place to sleep unmolested. He takes care of her, doesn't hurt her," she scanned the girl's form meaningfully, "You know, _kind_."

"Master Nott got me lots of beautiful dresses," the girl said, looking down again. "He takes care of me."

There was another long stretch of silence that even Hermione fidgeted in this time, before Marie made to break it again.

"What," Marie asked, "about Lord Malfoy?"

Hermione looked at the girl sitting on the stone floor in her faux-medieval finery. She found herself suddenly contemptuous of Nott's sartorial taste; she was no costume historian but she was fairly sure no one had ever put those sleeves together with that neckline, and, even aside from historical accuracy, there was a good reason for that.

"Lord Malfoy," she murmured, "has been very good to me though I wouldn't ever call him kind."

She wondered how long Nott would have this girl back in his room before he'd have her repeating everything said in front of her. She threw a warning look at Marie who nodded.

"Would you read some more from that book?" Marie asked.

"I'd love to," Hermione answered her, opening up the novel - the poorly written, lurid, but fully wizarding novel - and began to read.

The light had gotten dim and Hermione had lit multiple candles by the time Nott returned. She and Marie had both made more tea, which the girl refused again, and Marie had fetched a tray of sandwiches from the kitchen. The girl had refused those as well. All she'd say when offered food was, "Master Nott takes care of me," sometimes prefacing her refusal with a "no thank you."

Marie and Hermione looked up when the door opened but that girl just continued to look at her knees. Nott entered and, before he even looked at his girl he pulled his eyes from Hermione's head to her feet and back then smiled at her again. She'd never before felt the impact of the phrase, "undressed with his eyes" but she suddenly couldn't wait to go back to Malfoy's room and order another bath, let Malfoy shag her senseless; practically anything to get the feel of him off of her again.

"Hello, pet," the man finally said, and only then did she look up at him. "Were you good while I was gone?"

"Yes sir," she whispered.

Marie frowned and said, "Master Nott, sir, I'm worried she might be getting sick. She didn't have an appetite, not even for tea. Just sat there on the floor almost without moving."

"Did you," the man's voice actually warmed and the girl seemed to almost quiver. "That's my good girl. C'mere, pet." The girl nearly bounded across the room to him.

Hermione was stunned she wasn't cramped after being so still for so long and thought, with another shudder, that she knew how to sit for a long time, subtly shifting herself to keep from losing circulation. She doubted that skill had come from a significant interest in meditation.

Nott was still talking to the girl, "I think you deserve a reward for being so good, pet. What do you think?"

"Whatever you want, Master Nott," the girl was biting her lip and looked, _God_, she looked like the blighter had promised her Christmas and Valentine's Day rolled into one.

"Indeed," he purred down at her. Then he looked back at the two women on the couch and said, with a polite nod, "Ladies."

After the door had closed Marie and Hermione both shuddered.

"You knew," Hermione accused Marie, "why she hadn't eaten anything. You knew it wasn't because she was getting sick." They'd both known, but hearing herself even insinuate it aloud made her skin feel caked with a filth she'd never be able to scrub clean no matter how many baths she took.

"I just wanted to hear him confirm it," the girl responded. "He's..."

"Vile." Hermione said flatly. "It's too dark to read anymore. Get me a brush and I'll see if I remember how to pin hair up. I want to keep my mind busy, not think about whatever that girl's reward is."

Marie nodded, bustled about the room to get the few things that were hers while Hermione silently counted all the morbid favors in existence that it was Malfoy's room she ended up in, after all.

. . . . . . . . .

It'd been several more days since her run in with Nott in Zabini's chambers.

When Draco had returned that evening to fetch her, she'd reluctantly told him about the visit after he prodded her with questions at her 'odd behavior'. He didn't try to storm off again like before, not immediately anyway. When he did, she'd managed to drag his interest back to her, back to keeping her sane, with his touch.

His hands, his mouth, his hips driving into hers, they all did wonders for keeping her mind blank to nothing but the pleasure. She'd ridden him with wild abandon, eager to forget about the day, about who she was, why she was there, all that had happened before; all of it was lost in throes of ecstasy and the rough, carnal dance that ran on instinct first and foremost and a thinking mind not at all.

Her performances for him, for her, really, to alleviate hers and his stress both, afforded her the slightest bit more freedom. Judging by the guttural - also intensely satisfying to her womanly pride - noises and babbling she'd been able to pull from him, she ventured that such a thing came as his way of appreciation for her…efforts.

That realization planted yet another seed in her mind for which to use to secure her survival.

It took Hermione all day but by the time she was done her fingerprints were all over 'their' room. She'd carefully left the room and headed down to storage, pulling what she could carry, ordering other servants to bring the rest. If she was going to be King's Mistress, damn it, she was going to do it.

Oh, she was subtle with the execution, but she hung curtains across those balcony doors, added a table and two chairs, pulled books from the library – books she might actually enjoy instead of _A Mate for Angelus -_ for a shelf, found a better bedspread. Everywhere you turned in the room you could see something she'd changed to make the space more comfortable. She didn't touch his desk, didn't disturb so much as one paper. That, she knew, would infuriate him.

The bloody resistance would be on her to read everything, report everything, but it wasn't their skin that risked being peeled away if she got caught, if she lost this man's protection. She'll leave the papers alone. For now. Hell, for as long as she needed to. Fuck the resistance; her own safety took priority. What had being on the light side done for her anyway?

When he came in, slamming the door as was his habit, he narrowed his eyes, immediately taking notice in what she'd done. "You made some changes," was all he said, voice controlled.

"I thought you'd like it," she looked up, her face a study in worry. If I anger you, her expression read, I'm lost. She'd practiced the look in the mirror until she was fairly sure she had it right, that she'd successfully squelched any subtext of 'you fucking bastard.'

He studied his desk, searching for evidence she'd moved his things, gone through his work, then looked at the dark green curtains, the table. "Why?" He hesitated then clarified. "Why the table?"

She looked down at her feet. "I thought maybe if we had a table we could eat here some nights rather than with…" she trailed off, knowing his possessiveness would flare at the thought of Nott. "I can get rid of it if you don't want it," she finally muttered when he didn't say anything.

Hermione had always scorned feminine arts of manipulation. It seemed so dirty - so _cheap_ – to rely on trickery and subterfuge instead of just being direct. However, 'direct' long ago stopped being an option and she needed to entangle this man in a web he couldn't quite figure out, can't name, can't escape from. The lure that maybe she wants to spend time with him alone, a bloody romantic dinner in front of the fucking firelight, will tempt whatever that something is that looks out at her when he drops his guard.

"No," he walked over to the shelf, picked up one of the books. "Dinner away from the others sounds nice." He looked over the titles she'd brought up and asked, snidely, "No _Hogwarts: A History_?"

Hermione squinted at him; how the bloody hell did he know she used to read that book all the time? How fucking long had he had this weird little obsession? All she said was, "I'd rather not be reminded of days when I wasn't… this." She turned away from him, stared bitterly into the fire.

"Wasn't what?" he asked, watching the way the light danced around the edges of her curls.

Open up, a little voice in her head whispered. Don't be too forlorn, he won't buy that, but be honest. Play this little game out. You've set the stage, now do your little song and dance number.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispered. "Wasn't your fucking slave, how's that for starters?" She wrapped her arms around herself and added, "I grew up in the modern world; my parents were dentists, for god's sake. I had ballet lessons and trips to the museum. Now I'm living in a castle with no running water, hauling goddamned chamber pots and running scared all the time. If I think too much about how I got here, where I was before, I'll lose my mind."

After a few moments she added more emotionally than she'd meant to, "Sometimes I wish I weren't a witch."

He turned sharply at that. "Don't say that," he snapped. "Being a witch makes you special, makes you _better_."

"Being a witch," she snapped back, "who can't use her magic because that will alert your fucking side to where I am, get me captured and tortured to death, is hardly _better_ than being a muggle." Her eyes took on a far off look, gazing into the hearth as though she could see something past the fire. "Do you know what it's like? To be able to feel the power humming through your veins, over your skin, to smell it..._taste _it in the air around you and not be able to touch it...take it..._control_ it.."

Draco watched, entranced as her small hand reached towards the fireplace, her fingers dancing through the air like she was stroking the coat of a great, faithful beast that was waiting for her call. No...no, he didn't know what that was like. He'd never known what that was like; and seeing her there, remembering the command she had had over her magic, he found a part of him angry that his bird was so tethered, her wings so clipped. She snapped out of her daze, jerking her hand away from the hearth, tucking it back around her frame and looking just the smallest bit unsettled.

"Being a witch has brought me nothing but grief, _Lord Malfoy_. I was tormented in school for being a mudblood, I've been tortured by your aunt, I've been on the losing side of a war, and now that all my friends are dead all I want to do is survive." She shivered and then repeated. "All I want to do, anymore, is survive."

"I think," he said, crossing to her and putting his hands on her shoulders, "you've done a pretty good job of surviving."

"Better than anyone else has, I suppose," she muttered. "Which isn't saying very much."

He turned her towards him, doing that confusing mixture of gentle hands and hard expression thing, and she looked up at him. "I like the curtains. I like the table," he said. Then, with a leer, "Maybe I'll bend you over it later."

"Maybe I'll let you," she said with a snort, shutting down her moment of exposed sharing, noting to herself in the far back of her mind that she'd pulled him one step tighter to her, bound one more thread around him with her little set, her little scene. The play's the thing, she whispered to herself, wherein I'll catch my little king. I don't need his conscience – even assuming the bastard has one. I just need his heart.

. . . . . . . . . .

He sat, propped up against the headboard, staring into the amber liquid he swirled in his glass. She was asleep, again, in that dangerous heavy sleep she fell into after he'd wrung her all the way out; she even had her back to him. His gaze shifted from his drink to the firelight playing across the planes of her back making the valley between her shoulder blades ever darker and her pile of curls glow with shifting golden hues.

It was curious; because of the glamour he'd used to hide her he'd barely had a chance to see her - _really_ see her - before she was hidden away. Of course, by now she'd been exposed to him in the most intimate ways, over and over again, but he still didn't know what she looked like. He didn't know what _she_ was like as she arched under him, as she convulsed around him; he only knew what the glamour looked like. Maybe that was why he didn't feel quite satisfied. Maybe that explained why having her as a willing bedmate wasn't enough.

Surely that was it. Nothing else made sense.

He took one last swig before discarding his glass and picking up his wand, shaking his head with smug satisfaction because she still barely stirred; she'd been very vocal during their last session as they broke in the new furniture.

It turned out that he _really_ liked that table.

Scars, Zabini had said. He knew he wasn't speaking just of the flesh and blood kind, after Nott had gotten to her he'd seen that well enough. Still...

_What kind of scars do you have, Granger?_

Draco pressed the tip of his wand between her shoulders, dragging it down the length of her spine in a slow, sensual movement, watching the goosebumps prickle in its wake. He felt her wake more than he saw; she was good, her body barely twitched, but he knew from the so subtle stutter in her deep, easy breaths that she wasn't asleep anymore.

"Going to kill me?"

Her voice was tense and controlled. He felt almost offended she still worried about that. Couldn't she tell that he…

That he whatever it was he did. Wanted her, he supposed.

He shook his head. "Hardly." Then, "I want to see you."

He could nearly feel the quirk of her eyebrow, but she shifted, as did he, moving around one another in a careful way until she was on her back, looking up at him with those eyes. "Again?" she asked with a small smirk of her own, her arms reaching up to loop around his neck, her gaze ticking to his wand and back with an unspoken question.

"I want to see _you_," he muttered again. Draco scanned her body, lingering on the modest breasts she'd exposed when she shifted beneath the blankets, then settling back on her eyes that were just... not quite right.

Hermione's lips pursed, brow dipped, and she opened her mouth to question him again but he snaked his wand in between them, carefully, slowly. Even with his deliberate movements she stiffened when the tip of the wood trailed over her collarbone down to where he tapped it idly over her chest.

"The glamour," he clarified finally when she didn't ease.

Understanding cleared the fear from her eyes and she sank back into the pillows a little more. Draco let out a little chuckle and pulled back enough to give room for the minute gesture he'd need for his _finite_. He was eager to have the real thing, fully exposed to him, writhing beneath him - or above him - he wouldn't be picky this time. She would even be able to see herself, he could give her that. She'd been good, so _very_ good, she'd earned it, and even if he couldn't give her back her magic to gain her trust, he could -

A new light came into his eyes and he was sure the idea had made its way to his face because of the way she blinked up at him, even gave him a cautiously seductive tilt of the lips.

"Performance anxiety, Commander?" Hermione raised an eyebrow and he snorted, though the longer he held himself above her with his wand at her breast the more her anxiety started flooding back in. She started trying to plot escape routes but try as she could she was having a hard time figuring out a plan that started with her naked and pinned by an experienced soldier and ended with her getting away.

Her anxiety spiked even higher when he pushed away from her suddenly, nearly launching himself off the bed, the hand he'd wrapped around her wrist dragging her behind him. She stumbled after him, a naked captive, as he hauled her to the corner of the room that had the new table and a long, freestanding mirror. He shoved her in front of it and held her there and she stared at herself, totally bared and defenseless with his tall, pale form framing her. What new insanity was this? Why was he making her look at herself? Of course she'd seen herself naked. She'd seen herself naked, like _this_, much more than she cared to. She practiced her subtly beseeching looks, her convincing posture, a whole plethora of different things in front of this mirror, but it didn't mean she cared to see this - see what she'd become - any more than she actually had to.

"Malfoy, what the hell - "

"Lord Malfoy," he purred into her ear absently, catching her stare in their reflection. "And I've already told you, Granger," he spoke lowly, his left arm coming to wrap around her waist, "I want to _see you..._"

She was confused. She opened her mouth to snap at him, to say something that would undoubtedly get her into trouble, but her snippy response froze on her tongue as she felt his hand - his _wand_ hand - nestling into hers at her side. He still held his wand, of course; one didn't get this far along under the Dark Lord's rule by being a complete slave to one's prick, but with the way he nudged it against her hand as well, he made it abundantly clear what he meant. Her eyes were huge and round, she stared at her right hand, near a wand for the first time in far too long, and she had to check with him in the mirror to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. With a wide, sly smile that could only belong to Draco Malfoy, he nodded, nipped at the flesh of her shoulder with his teeth and then nodded again until her hand wrapped around his own where it held the wood.

The hawthorn's energy tickled her skin where it met her fingertips. How long had it been since she was even _near_ a wand, much less holding one? She wasn't an idiot, she couldn't escape with his wand, she couldn't overpower him here, like this; there was no glorious turn of the wheel of her fate to be had here, naked, held in this monster's arms. In that moment, in that very second, she found she didn't bloody care. She just wanted to _touch_ the power that had been locked away from her for the last few years.

"You remember the incantation." Not a question.

Of course she did. She remembered every spell she'd ever learned. She'd practiced with plain sticks to keep the gestures in her muscle memory, sitting in the woods waving twigs and crying while she grimly forced herself to forget _nothing _in case she ever needed it. In case she'd ever get to use it again. But… "The Trace," she said it flatly. "I can't. He'll find me."

But Draco shook his head. "The Trace is on your wand, not you."

She snapped her eyes up to look at him in that damned mirror instead of at the wand in her hand. Years of worry, years of trying to find the answer to that question – people had _died_ trying to figure out how the Trace worked - and he'd answered it with casual disregard for what that knowledge meant. For what it meant to the resistance. For what it meant _to her._

Then a gasp left her and she was staring at clouds of gray looking back at her hungrily. His face was half buried against her neck doing _wonderful_ things that made muscles in her thighs clench with anticipation and took her brain mostly away from the precious thing she'd just learned. "Wh-what?"

"The incantation," he said patiently, seemingly oblivious to what he'd let slip, and he began moving his hand in the motion, taking hers along with it. Draco was nibbling his way across her bare shoulder, along the length of her neck and all the way up to a sweet spot behind the curve of her ear. "_Fi-ni-_"

Hermione's breath hitched and rather ungracefully, she swirled their joined hands in the air before them, knocking his wrist so it flicked in the direction of her body. "_Finite!_" she called, more loudly than she really needed to, but she wouldn't let him finish first and take this from her.

Before her eyes - both their eyes - the glamour shimmered and melted away. Her rat's nest of hair smoothed slightly, the tone of her flesh actually darkened a tad, and the shade of her eyes deepened to a rich espresso. She watched as her battle scars, few but significant, rewrote themselves into her flesh and stared with morbid fascination as that horrible word etched itself into her forearm once again. Her lips unconsciously mouthed each letter as it appeared _M - U - D - B - L - O - O - D_. Never did she imagine that she would _ever_ be the least bit happy to see that wretched thing in her skin again, but there she was - there _SHE_ was; naked, clean, and _herself. _

Draco felt her shiver in his arms and inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin, everything, while unable to take his eyes away from her reflection. She was more magnificent than he'd dreamed, the glamour truly paled in comparison to the beauty staring back at him. _Finally._ "There you are."

His words startled her out of her head. "Why?" she demanded, still shaking, still shivering, "Why would you?"

"I wanted to see you," he said again, a reply that answered nothing.

"Why let me…" she stammered, horridly grateful to have been allowed – _allowed_ – to do magic.

He stared at her in the mirror, unable to get enough. The real color of her eyes caught the firelight better, captivated him. He wondered how long it had been since she'd felt her magic, hell, how long it had been since she'd looked at herself in a mirror when she wasn't covered with muck and dirt and grime. She was also staring at herself in wonder and he watched her, wanted to watch her, wanted to watch them together.

"Hermione Granger," he murmured huskily, loving the way she trembled when her given name passed his lips, "was the brightest witch of her age, and what's a witch without her magic?"

"Nothing," she whispered in defeat, her fingers gliding over her body, rediscovering her own skin. "She's nothing." The tone tugged at him and even as he brushed his mouth over the back of her neck, even as he pulled a soft moan from her, a part of his mind began to work at the problem of a witch without her magic. _His_ witch shouldn't be without her magic; wouldn't be.

"By the way," he said against her skin, "if that little tidbit about the Trace should make its way to the resistance I would know the source and I would have to do something about it." Her eyes met his in the mirror, guarded again.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" he spoke between kisses, "You aren't a drudge, my dear. You don't move like a drudge. You don't react like a drudge. Some day very soon we'll have to have a talk about what you _are_."

"I'm a survivor," she leaned back against him, her eyes closed and rear pressing flush against his hips, ready to celebrate the return of her skin in the only way she was allowed. "That's all I am. Nothing else."

"_My_ survivor," he said gruffly, leading her back to the table and bending her over, kicking her legs wide.

"Your survivor," she agreed, watching him as he bent his attention again to nudging her hair off the nape of her neck with his nose and lips in a way that had driven her to fits several times before. He worked patiently until the eyes watching him in the mirror, were glazed with desire.

I can make you mine, he thought. I can give you what no one else can.

He wrapped one arm around her, feeling her scars under his fingertips, and dragged his wand hand along the inside of one thigh. He groaned at the feel of moisture that had begun to creep down her leg.

As he stared into her rich, dark eyes - _Hermione Granger's_ rich, dark eyes - and watched her mouth drop open in a sharp gasp as he pushed into her from behind, he thought how much better it really was with the real thing.

And that the table truly was a brilliant addition to their room.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. thfourteenth, LR Earl, Guest, Because Banana, pagyn, Kitty, LB123, Grovek26, FaeBreeze, LadiePhoenix007, punkrocksammy, ASJS, Honoria Granger, Rose Davis._

_Theo really is just shudder inducing, isn't he?_

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and____lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	10. Chapter 9 - Getting in Deeper

**A/N – Trigger Warning. The final scene in this chapter is a consensual but intense sadomasochistic encounter between Theodore Nott and his pet. It is prefaced by two rows of bold Xs so people who prefer to avoid explicit confirmation of Theo's preferences can do so.**

. . . . . . . . . .

The Italian walked through the halls, head down as he reread the list the commander had given him. He took the turns as he always did, without looking, trusting his feet to know the path; given how irritated he was about the day's instructions that was a good thing. His head was not in the game.

Honestly, what was he now? Draco's bloody errand boy? It was bad enough he had to know the man had the actual Granger in his bed, worse he sometimes had to hear her when Malfoy slacked off on the soundproofing, but why was their birth control his responsibility? For the last week or so, he'd been scrambling to find contraceptive potions for... fuck, he had no desire to know _why _the man needed them all of a sudden when he'd been shagging the bitch for the better part of the past month. Whatever it was, it had his old friend walking with more pep in his step and the woman had been more agreeable than she'd ever been before - which was to say, still not very agreeable at all.

While it pained Zabini to agree with Nott about _anything_ they shared the view that lusting after Granger was just bizarre. Yes, she was brilliant. She was also snotty, self-righteous and, really, that hair.

And it wasn't like he didn't have _other things_ to do, things that had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy's sexual obsessions. Things that were, he thought to himself with a grumble, actually _his job_. He exhaled with a short, irritated huff. At least this was keeping Malfoy - keeping the both of them - out of his way while he mapped all the drop points and insinuated himself into the flow of information that made itself in and out of the castle.

They'd locked the village down some time ago. Nothing went in or out of that place without one of their men checking it but Zabini knew the resistance was still getting goods somehow; goods _and_ information. Of the two he cared far more about the latter, though, as it had turned out, tracking down contraceptive potion supplies had been an excellent way to figure out how they were getting both.

After all, he couldn't very well go sending the request for either more potions or this supply list back to headquarters - well, he _could_, but he'd be damned if he signed his name to a requisition for the obvious combination of pomegranates, juniper berries, Queen Anne's lace, and Angelica. If that didn't scream 'getting into trouble at work' he wasn't sure what would. Instead he'd experimented by looking to the intel drops for assistance. His first request for juniper berries had been wholly ignored, which hadn't surprised him. What had been quite interesting, however, was that as soon as he implied it was Evans – he hadn't used Granger's name – that needed the items the response had been almost immediate and, thanks to the retrieval instructions, he now had a fairly substantial list of hiding places the resistance used.

The hiding places were good, which confirmed Zabini's suspicion that whoever ran this operation on the other side was no novice. He was happy to give credit where credit was, indeed, due and he was duly impressed with the cleverness of the hiding places. There were a number of 'loose' stones and boards in high traffic areas. Where, after all, better to hide secrets than in plain sight? Something you saw every day became not something that was out of place but just the way things were; it was bloody brilliant.

Zabini had pondered, more than once, just how involved Granger was with this outfit. He'd bet good money none of the little drudges knew who she was but someone out there certainly did and that someone had jumped, and quickly, when she needed contraceptives. On the other hand, she seemed pretty genuinely uninformed; he doubted she'd have let herself be injured that first night if she'd known an attack was coming. Maybe, he mused, she thought she was just a low-level mole and was keeping her head down all the while someone out there knew exactly who was she was and was doing whatever he could to keep her safe. Zabini laughed to himself; whoever that mysterious benefactor was he probably had no idea how willingly – and, based on the sounds she made, merrily – Granger was shagging the commander, one of her oldest enemies and one of their most dangerous adversaries. That was rich. Well, he wasn't the only one walking a high wire these days.

He snorted and folded up his list to tuck it back into his pocket, finally letting his eyes come up to scan for the next loose stone and what should be his bleedin' juniper berries so the Healer could start on the potions before they ran out of her doses. Wouldn't want the resistance's golden girl, the poster child for bravery and nobility, to get knocked up, now would we? Especially not by Draco Malfoy.

He'd walked this hall dozens - though it felt like hundreds - of times and he'd never noticed the portion of the wall the newest note had mentioned; when he finally caught sight of the loose brick, he understood why. The handhold for the stone was almost invisible and if you weren't looking for the tiny crescent notched into the corner of the brick, you'd miss it. Now that he'd found it, of course, he couldn't _unsee_ it, but it was just more evidence that _this_ pocket of resistance was not a simple bunch of rag-tag escapees.

He shouldn't let that give him hope. He'd found cells that seemed to have it together before and it had always come to nothing and with Nott here…

This compartment, with the lack of wear around the edges and layers of dust covering its surface, seemed even less used than others he'd visited. Another sign that he'd lured bigger fish in with this operation. Whoever was coordinating the delivery of these goods was using different routes, things outside the norm. He suspected someone else had taken over this task after the first couple of drops. Curiouser and curiouser... _who do you have rooting for you, Granger?_

Blaise Zabini strolled up to the drop point, scanned the hallway once more, though he'd been monitoring the staff's patterns for days and knew there _shouldn't_ be anyone there. You could never be too careful, a thought he had a second time as he moved the false brick away and prepared himself to reach into another dark, probably spider-infested, hole. Avoid the spiders, get the berries, get them to the healer and get this ridiculous task over with so he could go back to the real work of mapping out the resistance and determining if this lot was worth really contacting.

Where the fuck were the berries for that fucking woman's contraceptive potion?

Zabini patted the dank walls of this drop point a few times before finally extracting something that felt nothing at all like a sack full of berries but quite a bit like a problem.

He mustered as much control as he could as he set the stone back into place, pocketed the note – the mother-fucking _note_ - and walked all the way back to a sparsely used servant hall near the main sleeping quarters. When he was sure he was completely alone and well out of view he opened and read the tiny slip of parchment.

_'Dragon, North, 3 days, Dawn.'_

An informant note from the inside.

An informant note from the inside in a rarely used drop point, one Zabini suspected led right to someone high up on the resistance food chain, a note that tipped them off to Draco's next bloody search party. No fucking wonder they couldn't find the goddamned mother-fucking headquarters…

Granger knew. Zabini would bet _anything_ that woman knew where the resistance headquarters were. Even if _she_ thought she was nothing but a drudge she would know exactly where those bastards were. No way someone who was funneling her medicines would leave her with no escape route.

Shite.

He suspected she also knew where this drop was.

_Double shite._

Okay. Since this wasn't one of the common drop points he was nearly 99% certain that one the low-level moles wasn't the culprit here. Who did that leave? Who would know the schedules of the planned sweeps? He did, of course. Certainly Malfoy. Nott? Maybe his little pet had overheard something but she wouldn't squeeze out a drop of piss out without that man's permission, and then there was Granger. The handwriting in the note was terrible, as if whoever had written it were trying to disguise his script, so he couldn't use that to help track down the culprit.

Blaise frowned. There could be another alternative, maybe a cook or another servant they'd overlooked somehow but…

If it were Nott they had a massive problem on their hands. If it were Nott he'd have a random sack of berries that should mean nothing to him lying around one of his rooms. But Nott made no sense; certainly the current regime suited him just fine so he had no incentive to try to help the rebels. Unless, of course, he was trying to undermine Malfoy, which wouldn't be that surprising.

If it weren't Nott, would Granger have the stones to do it? Malfoy _had _been letting her off her leash more but, again, what would her incentive be? She needed those berries to do… whatever the fuck it was they did in there where a contraceptive charm wasn't good enough or didn't hold or - stop, stopping those thoughts right there; don't want to know. And she had to suspect that Malfoy would kill her, no matter how much he liked plowing her fields, if she got in his way.

And, of course, there was still the possibility of some random person he was overlooking.

Someone was sabotaging their sabotage, damn it, and he needed to find out whom. He had to alert Malfoy and he had to do it delicately. As little as he cared for Granger he'd rather not have Malfoy kill her, especially not when she was keeping the man distracted and off his back while he worked.

Zabini exited the servant hall and swept down the unnaturally quiet corridor to his own room; the oppressive stillness made him suspect Malfoy had sought his witch out for a midday rendezvous and had remembered, for once, the silencing charm.

He entered his own suite with minimal fanfare, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned to greet Marie gruffly only to find her sprawled out and snoozing on the couch. The girl looked uncomfortable lying on her belly with her legs stretched out beneath her; she was so tiny that, with her head pillowed on one arm of the thing the tips of her feet barely brushed the other. To complete the picture, one of her little arms was sandwiched between her body and the cushions while the other hung off the edge.

The Italian couldn't help the small quirk of a smile that came to his lips. She looked uncomfortable but by the sound of the soft snores coming from her parted lips, she must have been anything but. He shook his head and retrieved a blanket to toss over the sleeping girl, snorting at how she immediately snuggled into the fleecy covering with a faint, dreamy smile on her sleeping face. She wriggled and readjusted again, rustling a bit more until she rolled onto her other side, her front now nestled towards the back cushions. Marie's movement knocked something free, something that must've been balanced somewhere on the couch before, and he crouched to pick it up, watching the girl to see if she would wake. The most he got from her at his nearness was a snort and a sputter then more of those soft, relaxed breaths.

His eyes widened when he realized what she'd had tucked away on the couch was one of the books Granger had been reading the first few times he'd come back to the room while they were having their enforced girl time. He blinked at the cover and then at the girl. He'd been fairly positive she couldn't read; Merlin help her if she were literate and she still made Granger read these disgusting things _aloud_. Zabini flipped through the pages of the trashy romance and realized it also had pictures – well, poorly done sketches - which were apparently what she'd been perusing. The worst was an image of a woman with some strange half-bird half-man creature groping her from behind with exaggerated fangs sunk into her shoulder; her head tossed back in rapture, and - was she tweaking one of her own nipples? Wait; was _he_ also tweaking one of her nipples? Blaise sneered at the pornographic image and closed the book, thought briefly about tossing it into his fireplace but decided against it. He'd rather not deal with whatever hysteria Granger would produce if he burned her things, horrible as they were. He left the wretched book by one of the legs of the couch, watching his slave sleeping soundly, presumably trapped in a torrid little fantasy.

"Dreaming about roguish bird-men ravishing you, love?" he whispered in amusement.

Marie shifted at the soft sound of his voice, cuddling deeper into her blanket and the cushions, though if he'd heard what he thought he did, she'd just murmured his name, and a bit wistfully at that.

For the second time since he'd entered his chambers, his eyes went round. _Him?_ He was quite sure he'd done absolutely nothing to insinuate that he was looking for companionship. In fact, he'd gone quite out of the way to make sure his encounters with the woman were completely sterile and devoid of anything that could be construed as interest... well, unless you counted _not_ raping and beating her, cleaning her up, giving her clothing and a modicum of comfort. Standards for courtship had dropped somewhat in the new world. His frown from before returned and his hand reached out, hovering over her plaited locks. He hesitated there for a long, _long_ moment and sighed, pulling it back finally and pushing back to his feet,

"Sorry piccina, I'm a one-woman kind of man," he sighed at her sleeping figure. She moved again when he spoke; maybe she sensed the rejection because this time her mumble was more of an unhappy murmur. Zabini shook his head, drew the blanket back up around her shoulders and turned to his desk where he set his mind firmly on the task at hand. He scribbled a new, modified, note to insert into that drop point and planned to monitor it to make sure this one went through.

Now, to wait and see.

...

It didn't happen the first time he let her do the _finite_ certainly, nor the second. But at some point she came to anticipate the moment she put her hand on his wand and got to be, in some small way, a witch again. She looked forward to it all day; in a life that had been years of grey, numb horror that tiny dab of magic became a glorious moment of Technicolor.

She found she was unspeakably grateful to Malfoy for giving this to her. She knew he could tell, that he could see the way she looked to the door when he came back with eagerness rather than forced sensuality. He never sneered, never commented, just let her do the incantation, night after night, his hand in hers, watching her in the mirror and she appreciated that too. It would have been so easy for him to lord - she cringed to herself when she heard the pun in her own thoughts - this gift over her, to remind her how she owed this to him, along with her clean clothes, her books, her relative safety. He doesn't.

And, possibly because he acted so human, so un-prat-like, about the _finite_ she stopped totally guarding herself, stopped monitoring all her actions and one night, after feeling the power of magic again - _oh god_, it was the best part of every day - she didn't drop to her knees in front of him, or bend over the table, or lead him to the bed or do any of the myriad things she normally did to fulfill their bargain, but just turned and flung her arms around his shoulders and hugged him.

Then she pulled back a little, tipped her head up and kissed him without thought, without intention.

He froze.

The feel of his warm body pressing against hers was hardly strange or unfamiliar at this point. Somehow though, _somehow,_ it was just suddenly all too intimate; she stumbled back, instantly apologetic.

"I didn't mean," she muttered. The humour of her embarrassment, over _being embarrassed,___by something so innocent when he'd had her in just about every possible way was not lost on her. "I'm sorry."

You're a toy, she reminded herself, just some kind of weird obsession. You don't have to fucking _thank _him for being nice. Don't make the mistake of treating him like a person; don't _ever_ make that mistake.

She started to move further from his grasp and his objection tumbled out, startled them both, "No." Those gorgeous dark eyes shot back up to his face, huge and maybe a bit nervous at this sudden and new territory.

Draco reached a hand towards her face, the first time she'd seen him truly hesitant, and he was searching her eyes, looking for _something._ It wasn't the first time he'd looked at her that way. It was, however, the first time she'd found herself so rooted in place when he did so. She felt the tips of his fingers tickle her cheek, saw the edge of his mouth twitch when she didn't jerk away.

He seemed fascinated with the faint dotting of freckles over her nose. "It's okay." Another pause, then, "You're..._cute_ when you're happy."

"Cute?" She looked at him in disbelief, not entirely sure she heard him correctly.

"Cute," he said again and coaxed her back towards him with a light grip on her hip again. He brushed her hair out of her face and his hand lingered there, curling over her cheek so that his thumb could paint these delicate small circles there that made a flurry of commotion erupt in her belly. "I haven't seen you that way before."

She missed the astonishment in his voice, retreating more into the thoughts of her unpleasant reality. "I don't," she muttered, unconsciously leaning into his touch while also avoiding his stare, "have a lot to be happy about."

He brought his other hand up to repeat the careful caress on the opposite side of her face and slowly, cautiously, lowered his mouth towards hers. "I'm sorry about that," he whispered against her lips, "the world is as it is, not as I'd have it be."

Hermione's blood rushed in her ears and it took her a great deal of concentration to not get lost in the way this hardened man hovered so closely at her lips. He could have stolen another kiss then, she knew he could've, but he was so hesitant, so unsure, it was almost endearing. Her hands reached between them, finding the bare surface of his chest and she allowed her fingers to trail up and over the ridges and bumps of his various scars. She'd gotten him to tell her how he'd gotten each one; he hadn't had an easy life either.

He was a different kind of man now than the one she'd known and, as black and white as she'd like to think of them, she couldn't anymore. He'd survived, as she had; he'd done the things he had to do to make it there, still alive and standing before her. If they weren't all good things, well, she'd lost her own innocence a long time ago too. The lines between black and white had blurred in the years they'd been apart.

She stood there, his breath dancing across her lips, his body still. "In someone else's life," she finally exhaled and peered up from beneath her lashes, "in another world, I knew a girl who hated you."

"And now?" he asked, caught in the depths of brown staring up at him so evenly.

She weighed her choices as he stood there and waited, let her.

After a long heartbeat, she slipped her arms up around his neck, tugging him closer and brushing her nose against his with a whisper, "That world doesn't exist anymore." She closed that short distance between them, tipped her face up and let him kiss her in a gentle, searching kiss that was wholly different than the heated way he usually devoured her, though it still sent that tingling warmth straight to her toes.

At some point, she was leaning into him like a fool, as though he could support her, as though he would. He returned her embrace, one hand snaking into her curls and the other sliding over her waist, down her hip until he lifted her to their bed.

With her fingers tangled in his hair, his lips gliding over her neck, and his name tumbling from her lips, she lost herself in their grey world.

It's okay to pretend, she told herself.

So she did

…

Theodore Nott looked up at the knocking sound. He was moderately annoyed someone was bothering him mid-report but called out "come in" anyway.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Zabini walked in looking particularly focused. He wasted no time in striding right over to one of the high backed leather chairs facing the man and resting a hand on it. "Do you have a minute to go over a few things?" The question was more a formality than anything as it appeared the Italian was quite set on the discussion now or... now.

Nott eyed him seriously, the tick of an eyebrow the only indication of his curiosity and he set his quill down, pointed to the chair. "Sit. What's on your mind?"

"I'm in the process of locating all the intel drops," he began, settling onto the seat but staying at the edge, leaning forward in interest, "I wanted to get your impression of the staff you questioned."

"I sent all the reports to Lord Malfoy." Nott shrugged as though he were bored already, "Can't you just get them from him?" His dark eyes watched the other man even as he slid his mask of feigned indifference into place; he looked for the little twitches of muscle, a tick in the hand, a flutter of an eyelid, for any of the assortment of subtle cues that would help him figure out why Zabini was so invested in this topic, so invested he walked all the way here to talk about it.

But Zabini shook his head, very nearly rolling his eyes. "I don't want the dry distillation of which worker said what," he pressed with a slight grimace, "I want your impressions, your overall gut feel of the place. Just… share everything if you don't mind. I'm still too early in my own work to have a good sense for what questions to ask but I respect your ability to pull things out of people, things that they don't even mean to reveal."

Nott smirked and leaned back in his seat. It amused him how both Zabini and Malfoy thought he was utterly round the bend; pathetic, really, that they'd never asked themselves how a man who was – how did Zabini describe him, 'batshit fucking crazy'? – managed to rise so high so easily. Did they really think he'd questioned every person who worked in this castle and not cottoned to their own dislike? To the fascinating discovery that there were things happening about this place, and not just with the help. He may not have pinpointed the source, or all the culprits, or even exactly what was going on but it was adorable how removed they thought him to be, just their crazy interrogator. Very well, he would indulge them while waiting to see what time pulled out of _them _and revealed to him.

Taking down Malfoy would, after all, be one hell of a feather in his cap. For that potential reward he could be very, very patient.

His smirk eased into a genuine and handsome smile. "They're all idiots, of course," he said, meeting Zabini's eye to establish trust. "That was my first impression. It's shocking anything gets done around here. I was reminded of resistance to slavery in the Americas. People break things, work slowly, sabotage basic production all to kind of mindlessly thwart..." His words trailed off when he realized that the man was no longer meeting his eyes; he wasn't even looking in his direction anymore. The corners of his mouth tugged down in a slight frown - he hadn't even gotten to the best part yet. "What is it?"

"What have you done to her?" His voice was unnaturally even.

Zabini was staring at his pet.

He glanced over to see what had offended Master Zabini's delicate sensibilities; she was sitting where he'd left her, kneeling naked by the fireplace, head down and slowly brushing her hair out. His eyes scanned over the side facing them to check her out. The splotches along her arms and thighs were yellowing now and looked rather fetching in his opinion, the companion mark curling around her neck was blooming as well, and not a one of the crisscrossing lines over her back was even welted - no, she was fine. Precisely as he'd left her.

Nott was about to return to his evaluation of the local work issues when he noticed the man staring and perhaps a lighter shade of tan than he was a few seconds ago.

"_What_ have you done?" he asked again.

Nott sighed, exasperated at have to have_ '_'this' conversation again. "Nothing she didn't agree to."

The look Zabini gave him was incredulous.

"Fine." Nott threw his hands up. "Ask her yourself. Pet," he called out and she looked up for the first time - quite eagerly. She really was quite a find. "Master Zabini would like to ask you some things. Please answer him honestly."

She nodded then looked at Zabini and the man just stared at her.

He wasn't sure what to make of this woman sitting in front of him stark naked but for all those marks and – "What are those things on your wrists?" he blurted out, dodging his initial question because he was fairly certain he didn't really want to know what Nott did to her.

"They're leather cuffs with D-rings," Nott drawled with some amusement. "If you're really interested in restraint techniques I might be a better source of information than her." Zabini looked back at him and Nott sighed again. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk and propped his chin into the palm of one of his hands, looking at his girl thoughtfully. "People always think silk scarves are the best choice," he said with a slight scoff, "but you risk cutting off circulation. I'm not interested in having her lose a hand. Believe it or not, I take care of my things."

Zabini blinked at the man. His expression was serious without its usual hint of snide condescension or sleazy leering or _anything_. He simply looked as though he were noting that the sun rises and sets each day; casual, slightly bored, wholly sane and Zabini couldn't figure out if this side of Nott made him more, or less, concerned for the girl. Zabini turned and asked finally, "Are you… happy?"

"Yes sir," she looked at him steadily. "Master Nott takes care of me."

"If you wanted to… stop-" He frowned, gestured at her. "-_this_… I could… you could come and stay with Marie," Zabini stammered out.

"Greedy," Nott clucked his tongue, casting a sidelong look at the other man. "One not enough for you?"

"Do I have to leave?" the girl was looking at Nott with a panicked expression. She'd set her brush down and shifted, looking for a second as if she were ready to run and hide at the very idea.

"Only if you wanted to, pet," Nott purred at her and smiled with all of his teeth. What horrified Zabini the most was that there seemed to be actual affection in the look. "You're welcome to go any time. Why don't you tell the man whether you want to go or not."

"No sir," the girl was looking back at him. "I want to stay with Master Nott."

"He's good to you?" Zabini pushed, not quite sure why he was pursuing this. His eyes caught again on that bruised outline on her neck and something sour settled on his tongue when he realized it was about the size of a man's hand. "He doesn't... hurt you?"

She opened her mouth a little, looked nervously at Nott, not quite sure how to answer.

"Hurting her is exactly what I do," Nott saved her the trouble. He looked at her and, again, Zabini was horrified to see the look seemed to actually be _fond_. "I don't complain about Malfoy's inexplicable obsession with the mudblood swot, and I don't needle you about your pointless celibacy. Give it a rest."

"But… why?" Zabini looked back at him, thoroughly derailed, and Nott rolled his eyes.

"Because I like it." Nott looked at him through half lidded eyes. "I like her fear, I like her pain, and I like very much that she agrees to all of it. I like having a pet who does what I say, who's afraid to cross me and, as much as you may find it distasteful, she's here of her own free will. Now, if we're done exploring the details of my sex life," Zabini actually shuddered at that, how amusing, "perhaps you'd like to hear more about the castle staff and the myriad ways they embrace sloth as a form of petty rebellion?"

"Yes," Zabini turned his back on the girl with an act of will, "What were you saying before?"

Nott smiled. "As I was saying, the castle staff engage in a number of petty resistances but I don't think any of the regular staff are more than low level moles. There were a couple of people who tweaked my interest but..."

Zabini interrupted him. "Who? And why?"

Nott considered him for a moment. "Evans. Multiple people mentioned the health issues of the village but she's the only one who used the term 'dysentery.' She seemed stunningly stupid when I spoke to her, but admitted to being literate. It may surprise you but literacy is hardly universal in this backwater."

"Marie can't read," Zabini nodded.

"Marie?" Nott squinted at the other man, then remembered. "Oh, the girl you aren't bothering to fuck. You know, Zabini, it might do wonders for your tension level if you…"

"I do believe we have a tacit agreement to ignore one another's sex lives?"

"Or lack thereof?" Nott snorted.

"As I was saying, Marie can't read so, yes, I was aware that the local education system, even before the war, appears to have been almost totally defunct."

"How did this come up?" Nott eyed the other man curiously. "Tried asking her to proofread your reports or something?"

"Hardly. No, Evans reads her the most lurid romance novels when Malfoy deposits the woman in my room to get her out of his hair. I am apparently the on-site babysitter. I offered to get her some of her own and she admitted she couldn't read them." Zabini paused and made a face. "You would not believe how bad these books are."

Nott laughed at the picture of Zabini trying to write out status reports while Evans read aloud from some cheap paperback. He glanced back at his own pet who had returned to brushing her hair. She knew better than to disturb him at work and he felt more contempt than usual for Zabini; the man apparently lacked even basic control over the women in his own room.

"Anyone else?" Zabini continued, "besides the literate Evans, I mean."

"There are a couple of others. I can pull them for you to talk to if you want. My guess is they're the ones passing on information, but that's just an instinctive feeling, not based on anything concrete they said."

"Your gut feelings have been right before," Zabini was tapping his fingers against the edge of his chair. Such an obvious giveaway. People, Nott mused, should learn to be still. "If the rebels – the decision making, strategizing rebels, I mean, not girls sending out information - aren't camped out among the staff, and they aren't in the village, then where are they?" He caught a glimpse of Nott's blandly inquiring look and sighed. "Just thinking out loud. We may need you to pick one of the girls you think is one of our moles and question her again. I don't want to have to comb all the bleeding woods about this place to find their location if a quick round with you will narrow things down."

"I do appreciate efficiency," Nott smiled, "though I admit I think you may be overestimating the knowledge the insiders have."

"Do you think it's worth it?" Zabini was asking and Nott spared a moment to picture questioning Evans again but put that idea, as tempting as it was, aside. It would antagonize Malfoy for no good reason and the longer game of discrediting the blond was worth far more than a quick interrogation session to him. Better to choose one of the other girls, one who had triggered his sense she was hiding something far more thoroughly than little-miss-dysentery had.

"It can't hurt," Nott shrugged. "Well," he amended, "it can't hurt _me_."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

All work and no play made Theo... well if his work weren't as entertaining as it was, it would probably make him an irate son of a bitch. Be that as it may, he, like his dearest commander, could afford some playtime in between tasks. He was slotted to begin his second round of interrogations the next day at Zabini's behest and, as such, he felt it a good idea to clear his mind and prepare properly.

Theo gently tied his pet so she was standing at the foot of his bed, stretched between the two bedposts. He loved four-poster beds; they were such a wonderful example of functional furniture design. And his pet, oh, she was so lovely. He stood behind her, checking his handiwork to make sure she wouldn't pull herself free. She shuddered and her breathing hitched when he ran a finger along her spine and he felt himself harden at her fear, at how she tried to control herself. Who would have expected he'd have found such a delight at this distant outpost. He's already decided he plans to keep her.

"Oh, little one," he breathed, "you please me so." He pulled her hair off to the side and placed a soft kiss at the back of her neck. She was already crying, oh this was wonderful. Her body was shaking; she knew, by now, that his gentleness didn't bode well for her. Or, of course, depending on one's point of view, that it boded very well indeed. The combination of her fear and her willingness, that was just not something you found every day.

"I do not want," he whispered, "for you to be afraid of the wrong things, pet. I'm not going to kill you. Indeed, I'm not going to so much as leave a lasting scar on your beautiful skin. I'm just going to hurt you very, very badly. If you'd like to run, now is the time to tell me."

He smiles, his face buried in her hair, as she shakes her head back and forth, brushing that golden hair against his face. "Use your words, my sweet."

"Please don't make me leave, Master Nott," she whispered.

"Oh, love, I never make you do anything, you know that." He started to kiss her shoulder, then dropped a line of kisses along the lines of her back, feeling her quiver and shake under his lips. Oh, she was so perfect. "You know what to say if you want me to stop?"

"Yes, sir." Another hitch to her breath, she was trembling, a fragile thing about to shatter under his softly tracing fingers and he hadn't even started yet. He wondered how long he would manage to play before the erection, already trying to kill him, would demand attention. Her attention. He checked his knots again; silk run through the rings in her cuffs, binding her to the bed. The work would keep her upright until he cut her down, but he'd be able to slice through the fabric in an instant when he wanted her on her knees. Yes, he was ready to begin.

He turned to his desk and picked up the knife.

"Love," he said, and she obediently turned her face to look at him then, when he held up the knife - so very small, so very sharp – she began to openly sob. The tears ran down her cheeks, into the corners of her mouth, already open and starting to beg and to plead and he stood there, leaning on the edge of his desk, holding the knife, watching her as she realized what was going to happen, watching her fall apart in front of him.

She didn't start to really scream until the third slice.

By the fifth slice - the fifth slow, careful, shallow cut – she was begging him, pleading with him to spare her, sagging in her bonds. She was almost choking on her own tears, those strangled gasps making him almost unbearably erect. He put the knife back against her skin and watched the blood well up, watched the short line of red bloom against her pale skin. Another line. And another. And another. Oh, she was really suffering now, his poor, sweet girl. Knives were really his favorite toy. So elegant. So simple. Another cut and he listened to her scream again before she subsided into sobs that racked her body.

She started to repeat 'please' as if it were a prayer, a litany to some uncaring god who might have mercy on her, might end her ordeal. He paused to listen to her, the knife an inch from her skin, hearing the achingly wonderful sound of her begging him without any real hope, without any real expectation he'd ever heed her.

What she wasn't doing was saying the safe word.

Theo brushed his lips across the back of her neck again and whispered, "Almost done, pet. One more I think. Shall I do one more?"

And his toy whispered, "Yes."

He wondered, as he placed the knife against her skin one last time, as he cut her down, as she didn't wait for permission to take him into her mouth, as he grabbed her hair while she demonstrated a technique that had grown quite flawless in the last month, what bourgeois little Blaise Zabini would have thought about that wholly sincere 'yes'.

**. . . . . . . . .**

_**A/N – **__Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. Gunnhildde, JennyFelton, Grovek26, S. Wright, chibi moon baby, Delancey654, Cheringin, KincaidBabe, qiana, Tar-Silmarien, FaeBreeze, pagyn, my name is mommy, LR Earl, LadiePhoenix007, Artemisgodess, Rose Davis, punkrocksammy, TheFantabulousPotterHead, murtaugh799_

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and____lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	11. Chapter 10 - Give Me Fire

As Draco sat at his desk looking over Zabini's analysis of the intel drops he wondered whether he should do anything about Granger's obvious connection to the resistance. He'd been putting off the issue since the moment he identified her as the real thing. You didn't become a power in this new world without being ruthless but he didn't want to sacrifice her, not after he'd waited so many years to possess her, not now.

He was close, so close now to truly having her. He'd had her body with and without its magical camouflage. He'd given her back a little bit of magic and, with it, some of the fire that had died within her. Every night that fire consumed him and every night – and some afternoons - he let it.

Draco thought to the night they'd shared not long ago - the night she'd hugged him, of all things - and scratched at the ink on the parchment he was inspecting with a grimace.

Things had shifted that night. The sex was still good – who was he kidding, it was bloody fantastic – but… things were just _different_ now.

The blonde peered over his shoulder at the snoozing woman, cocooned in the sheets and currently stealing the warm spot he'd left when he went to look again at the reports Blaise had slipped him before dinner; "We have to talk later tonight," the man had said. "Alone." Fucking over-achiever.

Malfoy chuckled and shook his head, folding the paper back up and tucking it into his coat before making his way back to the bed; whatever Zabini wanted it could wait a little longer. Keeping Granger tucked away in his room, or reading those ridiculous books to Zabini's housekeeper, should have effectively neutralized her for now but, chewing on the inside of his cheek and looking at her lying there, he wondered if he should take more direct action.

Of course, keeping her in reserve was not a bad strategic move either. A man who played all his cards at once was a man who lost. 

He slipped silently back under what was left of the sheets; the witch groused and mumbled when his arm came around her waist, stirring her from her slumber. He'd ridden her particularly hard that night and, with as much as she tried to be alert and on her toes, her half-lidded glare over her naked shoulder was a clear sign that she was anything but.

"Draco?"

The confused mutter of his first name, decidedly _not_ laden with hate and venom, surprised him so much he didn't even correct her.

Those walls were most certainly crumbling.

He blinked at her blurry-eyed state, only half aware of where she was – such a dangerous way to be, especially in _his_ bed – and moved in to place a kiss on her shoulder. "Sleep." He tightened his hold around her waist when she started to sit up to get a better look at him and leaned in again, this time running his lips along her jaw to her ear, repeating the command.

Hermione's brow furrowed a second before she let out a soft grunt and nestled back against him, automatically tucking her head beneath his chin.

Yes, he decided, adjusting the woman in his arms. He'd find that base without making her help him, continue to keep her on edge about how much he knew about her. It's the better plan and he's _quite_ sure he's not at all influenced by his desire to keep shagging her, to keep seeing the occasional look in her eye that suggested she'd started to think of him as more than a monster she had to placate.

…..

Theodore Nott stepped back to look at his handiwork. The girl he'd selected, a slovenly creature named Anna with long blonde hair, bad skin, and a jaw line that put him in mind of a horse, was still tied to the chair, though now the bonds were more to keep her from falling to the floor than from trying to escape.

He'd taken the time to get her to apologize for her little attempt at fleeing his clutches. She'd been most repentant.

Nott had once read a pamphlet on career advice that had suggested first determining what you loved and then becoming better at it than anyone else. Someone, the earnest publication had insisted, will pay you to do it. 'Follow your bliss' had been the basic theme. Studying horsy Anna, who sagged against her ropes in the chair, next to a small table with a neat stack of notes and his quill, he felt himself to be quite in agreement with that advice. When you loved what you did, work was play.

Malfoy let himself in without bothering to knock. The privileges of Lordship, Nott mused, privileges he himself fully intended to assume one day – soon if he had anything to say about it.

"Was she helpful?" he asked, not bothering with social niceties.

"Quite," Nott took a damp towel from a neat stack and wiped a spot of blood from his hands that he'd missed during his first clean up. "She named three other moles and walked me to five different intel drops."

"Accommodating of her," Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

Nott shrugged. "I believe I convinced her of the value of sharing knowledge. We had a long talk about how selfish it is to hoard such and I shared some of mine with her with, shall we say, some practical demonstrations."

The girl started to whimper in her seat, either regaining consciousness or, perhaps, suddenly gripped with the hope that Lord Malfoy would save her; foolish things, both of them.

Said Lord ignored her and walked instead to the table and flipped through Nott's notes. Evans wasn't named. Good. That would have been awkward, he would have had to _obliviate_ Nott, but he'd assumed she was high enough in the hierarchy to have kept her name away from the peasants. Nice to see that assessment had been accurate.

"Are the notes complete?" he asked in a casual drawl.

Nott watched the subtle tension in the man's shoulders with some interest. Another bit of data to tuck away. Sooner or later all these odd little tidbits would line up and he'd see the whole picture. Until then, patience.

"Well," he replied, "I did leave out her prayers to assorted deities to help her, her deprecations of my ancestry - my parents were, indeed, married - and her general babbled apologies and pleading." Nott shrugged. "I could probably recreate some of it if you like."

"That's fine," Malfoy tossed him a quick grin. "I don't need that level of detail." He paused and Nott followed the man's gaze back to the corner of the room. "You brought your pet to an interrogation session? Do you really think that's wise?"

Nott smiled fondly at his little toy. He'd let her curl up on a big chair – she'd been such a good girl last night – and she was now half-asleep, her blue gown spilling around her. If it weren't for the leash leading from her collar and casually wrapped around the leg of the chair you'd think she was someone's beloved, wealthy daughter. She was, he thought, as fun to dress up as she was to debauch, and she'd been a useful outlet when, midway through questioning Anna, he'd wanted a break. The sweet thing, she'd been almost jealous, glaring at the screaming drudge and obviously somewhat contemptuous of the other woman's lack of control.

Of course, he hadn't worried about saving Anna for another day. She was work, not play, a difference he'd made very clear to his pet. Her own whimpers of gratitude had been a pleasant counterpoint to Anna's sobbing. Yes, bringing the girl to an interrogation had been most delightful, and it was something he meant to do again as soon as circumstances allowed.

"I mean," Malfoy was continuing, "aren't you concerned she'd find this... disturbing?"

Nott snorted, watching his beauty doze on the chair. "Hardly. And you needn't worry about her repeating anything. She's a good girl."

"If you say so," Malfoy dismissed the girl with a gratifying lack of horror.

"Do you have any personal recommendations on how to move forward? Zabini wants to watch and wait, slowly slip in false information."

"Seems overly cautious," Nott snorted. "Why not just kill them all and get it over with."

"Well," Malfoy rolled his eyes, "I'd do that but we do have the minor problem of not knowing where their bloody base is. You didn't mention it, but I have to ask. Did she know?"

Nott bit the inside of his cheek and looked at Anna. "No. And I can't believe she'd have the fortitude to keep something like that from me. People do lie under torture, of course, but usually they make things up to make you happy, not withhold them from you."

"Do you think one of the other..."

But Nott was shaking his head. "No, as much as I'd enjoy it, I doubt we'd get anything more from them and we'd just tip our hand if we slaughtered all the moles at one go. Damn it," he sighed, "I hate it when Zabini's right. Fucker."

Anna had started to moan more loudly. "Please," she was saying, "L- Lord Muh-Malfoy, please help me."

Malfoy flicked her an annoyed glance and returned to skimming Nott's notes. "It looks like good work," he said at last, having to raise his voice a little to be heard over the sounds the worthless drudge was making. "Even if she didn't know the actual base location you got quite a lot. It's nice to do business, as they say, with someone competent."

"Thank you," Nott smiled toothily at his commander, preening at the compliment.

"Are you done with her?" Malfoy asked, his obvious irritation having finally spilled over. When Nott nodded the blond man turned and, after a quick burst of green light from his wand, the girl's moans had stopped. "Have someone from our own team dispose of the body; no need to unsettle the locals."

Nott nodded again and began gathering up his things. "I'll have clean copies of my notes to you and Zabini by morning," he said

"Sounds good," Malfoy said and, turning to leave, he added, "I do _not_ know how you do what you do, Nott. The fucking whimpering and moaning and begging for mercy would just piss me off so much I'd end up killing them too soon."

Nott shrugged and spared another glance to his pet, "We all have our talents, Commander."

...

Draco Malfoy was doing his best to control his rage. He would _not_ kill her until he'd at least talked to her. He would _not. _

Fuck.

He'd finally sat down with Zabini. "What," he'd asked, exhausted after a long day, "did you want to talk to me about?"

He'd woken up pretty damn quickly during that conversation.

_Rarely used drop point. _

_Drudges didn't know it. _

_Quick confirmation with Nott's notes had confirmed that whomever that girl was he'd talked to didn't know it. _

_A note alerting someone outside the castle to his next sweep. _

Zabini's best guess was that it was Granger who'd left the note, though he admitted he wasn't sure. He hadn't _seen_ her. It was just that no one else who had even potential access to that kind of intelligence made any sense.

Zabini had watched him warily as his anger had grown.

"Malfoy," he'd finally said, "I just think you should be careful. These girls in our rooms – they have a lot of access. Marie can't read and Nott's little toy, well, she's not likely to risk angering him. But Granger…" he'd trailed off as the commander had stormed from the room, a horrible stillness in his expression even as his anger almost shimmered around him.

"Evans!" The yell echoed in the hall right before the bedroom door burst open then slammed shut, the blond flicking his wrist to lock and spend a few seconds warding the door.

Hermione looked up, irritated. She'd finally found a book she could enjoy and he had to come storming in and interrupt her; given that she'd been ordered to stay put any day she wasn't dumped in Zabini's room, getting lost in a book was something to be treasured, especially with the quality of the available books.

"What?" she snapped at him. Then she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and paled. This wasn't 'annoyed with work' Malfoy, coming in for a quick shag. This wasn't even 'furious at Nott' Malfoy. This was, unless she very much missed her guess, mad at _her_ Malfoy.

She didn't even know _why. _Ever since their odd little moment when she'd kissed him the ground beneath them had shifted. He'd been kinder; she'd been less wary. She'd started to think that maybe – maybe – this thing between them could be more than a deal. That maybe he could see her as a person separate from the war that surrounded them; that maybe she could see him as one.

He took a few more harsh steps into the room and she found herself clambering to her feet and moving away from the comfortable seat at his desk, pressing her back into the wall trying to get away from him.

"Doing some _educational _reading," he snarled, picking up some of the papers on his desk. They weren't important, of course. No matter how much fun she was in bed, no matter what odd little connection they'd started to have, he wasn't such an idiot as to leave anything that mattered within her reach but seeing her there, so close to his work, only stoked the rage that had been brewing since his most recent conversation with Zabini.

She looked at him in confusion, the romance novel she'd been reading still in her hands. It was the furthest thing from educational she could think of. "What are you - "?

"Don't play coy, Granger," he hissed, and then with a quick brandish of his wand, "_Finite!"_ He watched the glamour disappear, heard her gasp, watched those fiery eyes of hers ignite first in outrage then in something that almost resembled... hurt? He shrugged away the uncomfortable tug in his gut at the latter and pulled his lips back in a sneer so they were – _he_ was - on more familiar territory. "I think, _sweetheart_, it's time for us to have a little talk about some of your, how shall I put this, excursions around the castle. Because," and his voice got very low, "it seems you might have thought to make me a fool." When she didn't answer he grabbed her, tightening his hold on her so much so that his arm shook. "DID YOU?!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she glared up at him from beneath her eyelashes. There were at least a dozen things for her to be terrified of right then; the fact that he was really hurting her, that he thought she'd done something that apparently had him _livid_, that he was still threatening her with his wand... but all she could focus on was the fact that he'd taken the glamour away.

That was _hers. _That was something _she got to do_. She'd played by his rules, stayed locked away in this room, reading these awful books, bored silly, all so she could touch magic just once a day. And he'd just _taken it away_.

She should have been cowering, absolutely bloody terrified at the way he was looking at her right now, but all she could feel was her own fury and, laced in with that, the fear she'd never get to do magic again. That he'd take it away _again_.

"Malfoy - "

"_Lord_ Malfoy," he muttered, knuckles turning white around his wand; leaving off his title was only acceptable mid-orgasm, and even then only sometimes. Not now. Not when he was barely controlling himself.

"_Lord_ Malfoy," she repeated, her tone laced with malice; it was probably her imagination but she thought he almost faltered for just a second. "Perhaps before you slaughter me you'd be so kind as to explain how the _fuck_ I've angered you?"

He looked at her; she was so incredibly angry with him. How she could crumple whenever she saw Nott but was so fearless now he couldn't understand. She pushed herself forward until her neck was pressed into the tip of his wand, looking him straight in the eyes. "Either fucking do it, or talk to me, Lord Malfoy," she sneered, "but I don't deserve this. I've done _nothing_ but sit in this room and wait on your Lordship's pleasure. Don't _fucking_ come in here and take away…"

Then she broke off, snapping her mouth shut abruptly like the words stuck in her throat. He lowered the wand and re-holstered it, looked at her, loosening his grip on her while breathing hard. "Okay," he said. "Okay." Then, "I think, Granger, we have some things we need to talk about."

He yanked the book from her hands to toss it aside, tugging her across the room to the fireplace – mostly burned down to a few glowing coals – and pulled her down into his lap on the edge of the bed. "Now," he murmured in her ear, his arms wrapped so tightly around her he could feel every rigid stretch of muscle as she tried to sit away from his chest, "you're going to tell me a little bit about the resistance."

"I…"

He started drawing little circles on her leg with one hand, the other arm keeping her pinioned. If anyone walked in they'd see what looked like a romantic tryst but what he whispered in her ear weren't sweet nothings.

"How high up in their little organization are you, Granger? I thought you seemed too poised, too _soldierly_, to be just a little drudge but I kept neglecting to pursue that matter which, I have to admit, was well done of you. I commend your distraction techniques," he growled into her ear, sneering more intensely to avoid examining how knowingly careless he'd been. "Now, however, we have all night and you've so _thoughtfully_ provided us with a table so we can even dine in private. So… you _will_ talk to me."

Hermione was very much not thinking about the light patterns he was tracing on her leg, or how the soft touch was such a stark contrast to the harsh glare she could feel being directed her way. "Not very high," she finally admitted through her clenched jaw.

"Tell me how you got here," he prompted.

"I escaped Hogwarts after the battle," she stared at the dull grey grate, talking in a low monotone. "We regrouped. Kept fighting."

"I knew that," he was trailing his fingers up and down her thigh now, though whose comfort it was for, he couldn't be certain. "What then?"

"Then the Trace started. I didn't know it that day, of course, just knew we'd been found." She huffed out a little laugh, gallows humor to the end. "I escaped with literally nothing but a towel and my wand. Not even the proverbial clothes on my back.

"People helped me. Gave me clothes, shoes, food." She sighed, rubbing at her arms as best she could, rubbing away at the chill settling into her bones at the memories, then, "How many details do you want, Malfoy? It's the tale of every refugee ever. Misery. Cold. Hunger. Fear. It would be banal and commonplace except when it happens to you it's anything but."

"So… you got here," he promoted her with a small scowl, forgoing to correct her forgetting his title _again_. He was starting to wonder whether she was suicidal; first she admitted she was part of the resistance, and then continued to refuse to address him properly.

"So I got here," she agreed. "And the resistance got me a job at the castle with the instructions to report what I saw and do what I was told."

"And so you reported our arrival?"

"I did," she nodded, voice muted, gaze far, far away.

"I find it hard to believe you're just some low level rat."

That drew an exasperated sigh from her and she sagged against him at last, just utterly defeated. "I'm _tired_, Malfoy. I don't have much fight left." She laughed without humour at the disappointing honesty of her words as though she, herself, just now realized the truth of them; she shook her head. The exhaustion had crept into her tone and she didn't care; there was too much she was starting not to care about anymore, thinking about it all again. "So, what now," she asked as he continued to run his fingers across her leg and she watched them. The touch was soothing, she thought bitterly, and shed remembered how children often turned to their own abusers for comfort. Was that what she was doing? "You storm in here, _strip_ me of my -" she hesitated, breath hitched for a second before she swallowed, still unable to say it.

"The intel drop points," he spoke after a long stretch of quiet, just a hair more softly, more reasonably, than before; if his arms had tightened around her at the sound she'd made, neither acknowledged it. "Have you used any of them recently? And don't try to lie to me, Granger, as much as I'd hate to dispose of you after all of this, I won't have you making a fucking fool of me."

Hermione twisted on his lap to look at him. Her brow furrowed and she gave him a bit of a look that suggested he'd gone a trifle barmy. "_Drop points?_ I've been _here_ all day - "

"Yes or no, it's not bleedin' arithmancy!" She scowled at his raised tone and he saw hurt flashing in her eyes again; this time she'd done nothing to mask it.

"No," she said icily.

He tried to hold true to his aggravation with her but the way she was looking at him… "So fucking help me, if you're lying -"

"I gave you your fucking answer!" she snarled, surprising them both at the outburst and how wounded it sounded.

She chastised herself for feeling - for feeling _anything_ but her anger... but _fuck, _it wasn't anger that was making her hands shake. She shouldn't be surprised. They _were_ on opposing sides, after all. "I've been here," she muttered and looked away, "All day... today... yesterday... _every_ day. If not here then with Marie... since…"

"Since when?" he pressed after her last word had trailed off to leave them in silence, resisted trying to catch her chin and bring her back.

She could feel that hard stare of his, knew his mouth tugged downwards in that frown he wore so often. Hermione stared deeply into the fireplace, not wanting to think about it, or him, or how he would look at her when she was energized with her magic, or when she would cast the counter spell, or afterwards when they would- "I haven't left any kind of information since then, since… that night."

Her hands were playing with her skirt, trying to get her mind off the ache in her chest at the thought that he'd so easily discard what little truth was hers to offer in this stupid world, and off the part of her that had thought it wise to leap into his arms like he were some kind of saviour.

"I believe you."

Draco's lips were at her ear but she just shrugged and stared into the coals.

What was she supposed to say? Thanks? I'm so happy to be telling you about the worst experiences of my life, oh, yeah, and admitting that night with the kiss meant something to me when it obviously didn't to you; so all that convinced you I was telling the truth about not putting some worthless note in a fucking intel drop? That's great. So happy I could be of service. Let's go back to the – what did he call it before – the 'fucking you part of the program'.

This _was_ just an arrangement after all. Caring was never part of the deal. She started to visualize putting all these messed up feelings into a box so she could put them away with the rest of, well, the rest of _everything _else, when he distracted her.

"I said I believe you," he said more earnestly, pressing a few kisses to her nape, frowning when he got only another shrug. He turned her in his arms again, expecting anger and not at all the tears threatening to spill out at any moment. "Granger -."

Her hatred was back the second he spoke her name.

"What do you want from me, _Lord Malfoy?"_ she hissed.

The venom that coated his title startled him. He hadn't heard her speak to him like that in what at least _seemed_ like quite some time. Draco eyed her and the way she'd closed herself off. He was back to holding a body, a shell, on his lap. The person – the woman – was gone, tucked away somewhere inside herself again, not accessible to him.

A building sense of panic started deep in his core.

_No. No no no no no, I had you...I HAD you!_

After all this time, after all these years, he'd found her - the REAL Granger - and he'd had her, he could feel how she'd started to _want_ him. Now, because of the conclusions he'd drawn - the totally reasonable conclusions - about another bloody mole, she was slipping away right before his very eyes.

He wouldn't apologize; this was his job, his livelihood. You didn't get to be a commander by 'apologizing'. He'd done nothing wrong in the least. But then, he guessed, neither had she yet he'd still hurt her for it. He'd gone back on this arrangement he'd made and deliberately taken from her what she'd come to think of as hers, what he had given her.

_The penalty for deal breaking is severe._

Draco shut his eyes as the memory of his own words mocked him and in his panic pressed a light kiss over her ear, hoping the desperation wasn't noticeable in either his words or his posture. "Fire," he said quickly.

"What?" she snapped, simmering in her own anger, her own hurt, her own grim acceptance that her magic was gone. Again.

"I feel the chill already." It _was_ absolutely frigid in the room, though not because of the nearly spent coals. "I want you to give me fire."

She scowled. "Yes, my Lord," she mocked him openly, trying to move off his lap so she could build the fucking fire for him, only to find him holding her more tightly than before. When she opened her mouth to ask what game he was bloody well playing at, she felt the press of a smooth wooden handle into her palm and her mouth dropped open the rest of the way. Her head jerked back, nearly knocking into his, and she was staring at her hand. It was nearly identical to the first time he'd done this, except this time he wasn't holding onto the wand_ AT ALL_. She stared, dumbfounded, at the hand that gripped the wood, loosely at first but with steadily growing confidence by the second.

Draco knew he was a fool.

Giving Hermione Granger, already the most wanted fugitive in the bloody country who had also just admitted to being a member of the resistance, a wand - _his_ wand - even if he WAS right fucking there - was asking for death. He wouldn't lose her, though, he couldn't; not after being _this close._ He felt her shaking, her trembling as a million and one thoughts raced through those too expressive eyes, and, as he started kissing his way along the side of her neck in the closest thing to an apology as he could muster, he made the conscious decision to be a fool.

"Y-you… want me to…"

"My witch," he whispered into her hair soothingly, loosening his hold on her with some reluctance, "_will_ have her magic. _My_ witch will want for _nothing._"

_I've gone and died_, she thought to herself, _right now, I must be dead_.

There was no other explanation for it. There simply was no other way she would be in this horrible, bleak world, shut away from her power and on the run for years, with one of the Dark Lord's most feared soldiers nuzzling her ear, his wand in her hand, cooing sweet promises from his lips.

She clenched her hand so she could feel the bite of her nails in her palm and wake up only to be stifled by the wood that still resided there.

A wand in her hand.

She had _a WAND in her hand._

"Granger," he murmured in that same insistent tone he used when he told her to come, "Give me a fire."

She slid from his lap and looked at the grate, his wand held lightly between her fingers. Hermione rolled the weapon in her palm, letting it hum in her hand and let the power of it, the power of being _armed_, ripple through her. Draco, she knew, was an excellent duelist and she hadn't been on a battlefield in years, though she supposed one never really forgot how to kill no matter how hard one tried. In that moment she wondered if she could do it, if she could turn and aim and close those grey eyes for good.

She swallowed. She remembered how he made her feel cherished, how he looked at her, how he held her in the night when he thought she was dead to the world and no one would see, and she knew she couldn't do it. The resistance would tell her, if she ever were so stupid as to share this little moment with any of them, that she was a fool. That he was a monster, that she should grab the opportunity to end him and then take his wand, his precious wand with _no Trace_ on it, and run like hell.

Maybe take Nott down on the way out of this miserable castle. That would be a service to all mankind.

She couldn't do it. Not now, maybe not ever again in this grey, grey world… grey like his stupid eyes, that bastard.

But, she could most certainly make him beg.

"Say _please_," she whispered, licked her lips and held the wand towards the fireplace. Her head tilted so her hair fell off her ear, so she could clearly hear him because now, after he'd given her his wand, she knew she would.

He looked at her from behind, her body poised and ready to light the fire. She was waiting, actually waiting, for him to say it. Draco Malfoy didn't say please, not to anyone, not ever. He didn't beg for anything but right then, watching her in front of him, the strength back in her spine, in her grip, a perfect picture of a witch he'd once watched every day, that witch –_ HIS witch_– pulled from him a quiet, entranced, "_please._"

**"**_**Incendio!**_**"**

The strength of the flame that erupted from the fireplace with her forceful hiss was so great and explosive that the fire whipped up and licked all along the mantle for several seconds before finally dying down.

She turned back to him then, and he found himself reaching out to brush the moisture that had finally fallen away from her cheek. She was smiling, gods she was _smiling_, and it was like looking into the sun; and he was too close, his wings were melting, he was falling, "I thought," he felt her cheek press into his palm, "that I asked for fire, not water."

"Yes," she returned to him his wand, fingers brushing along his skin as she passed it back, watching as he never took those eyes from her face. She leaned in, her hands slowly lifting to lie against his face, "but I don't take orders well. Especially from you."

Her quiet murmur ran through him and he thought – _tried_ to think - in that moment, how impossible it was for someone so burned, so broken, to forgive him so easily. He wanted to pull his own walls back into place, to shut himself away from her plight, her games, before it was too late and he too entangled, because it was _impossible_ to forgive so soon; then she kissed him again, her mouth gentle against his until it wasn't, her tongue tracing along his lips and his name – _his first name_ – tumbling from her throat repeatedly as she moved above him until, for the first time, he was wholly sure she wanted him.

Not her safety.

Not her freedom.

She wanted _him._

_**A/N – **__See – we got to something kind of almost sweet. Eventually. And there's an actual sugar-coma inducing scene that's being rough drafted about the nicest of the three boys. Meaning, obviously, not Theo._

_Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. Punkrocksammy, FaeBreeze, Rose Davis, LB123, bicorn-tana, JennyFelton, pagyn, LadiePhoenix007, ladymagna1100._

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and__lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	12. Chapter 11 - A Blaze of Light

He sat and looked over the most recent note from the castle. Who would have expected anyone would have sent Draco-fucking-Malfoy up here, or that Hermione would have ended up in his clutches. He hadn't believed the rumors, the more fool he, and now he had to deal with the consequences of that mistake.

The man was good; it had been hard to credit just how good he was, hard not to dismiss him as the arrogant bully who spewed out empty threats but was, at heart, a coward. That had been another mistake. Anna, dead. The village almost totally locked down. Near daily sweeps of the countryside. It might be time to pack up and move out, and he would if it weren't for the fact that that would mean abandoning Hermione, which was unthinkable.

And, of course, there was the issue of Blaise Zabini.

The witch slept behind him on a cot; she still couldn't bear to be alone, not ever. She hadn't spoken since Hogwarts, not when she was awake, anyway. He'd have thought the cut to her throat had destroyed her ability to speak if it weren't for the way she called out in terror from her nightmares. It had been a miracle they'd gotten her out.

A miracle and Zabini.

He'd stood in the chaos, amidst all the commotion, casting spell after spell at her, at all of them. Blood loss replenishing spells, shield spells, healing spells, all worked together in spontaneous, creative charm work that had been nothing short of brilliant. The man had saved a lot of lives that day, probably without even meaning to, he'd been so focused on trying to get to her.

He still cursed the house prejudice that had kept them from recruiting the man on the spot. But, they hadn't; hadn't trusted him, and, in the end, when the battlefield had stilled and he was one of the few found standing, he'd had to save his own hide by offering allegiance to Voldemort.

Things might have gone a lot differently if they'd had Zabini's mind on their side.

Still, you couldn't miss how often key resistance players escaped when Zabini was the strategist on site. The man would hand low level moles off without a second thought, he'd lead his teams to resistance sites and raze them to the ground but, somehow, the important people always got a warning, always got out.

You couldn't miss how often she still said his name in her sleep.

He knew it was Zabini asking for the potion supplies, cringed to think of Hermione having to placate Malfoy with sex. She'd suffered so much, fought so valiantly, all to end up having to whore herself out to a man she'd hated since they were children just to survive. It nearly killed him that all he could do for her, right now, was to help ensure she didn't get pregnant. But they couldn't abandon her, not unless things got much worse than they were now. And, thank all the gods, she didn't know anything.

Malfoy could _imperius_ her, could torture her, could trick her, and all she could reveal were some intel drops and a way-station where she met with a man she didn't know. She didn't know about him, didn't know about who'd survived, didn't know about anything. She'd fought so hard for so long and when she'd ended up in the local village, wary eyed and tired and frightened, he'd known that she was done. Maybe in time she would have energy for the fight again but right now she needed safety and space and, damn it, she'd had that.

She'd had that until mother-fucking Malfoy had shown up.

He wondered, sometimes, if he would ever stop hating that man.

So he sat in his tent and made plans, sent information up to the castle. It was all intercepted, he knew that, so he sent the actual potion supplies and false data and maybe, just maybe, he'd send an encoded message for Zabini.

We're out here. If you wanted to join us, we'd have you.

And I just might have something you want.

. . . . . . . . . .

Zabini reached into the drop, pulled out the usual bag of that woman's berries. Granger hadn't shown up to dinner green-faced and plump yet; so far so good. Everything seemed to be in order, save for the envelope pinned to the bag. _That_ made him frown and, with a quick look up and down the hallway to confirm that, yes, the staff were all where they were supposed to be, meaning 'not here', he opened it up.

There was a lock of hair.

No note, no explanation, just a lock of red hair.

He ran the strands through his fingertips, knowing the feel of it anywhere, even after this long.

He backed up to the wall and stared at it, shaking.

With precise, careful movements he slipped the hair back into the envelope, put that into a pocket, and then his back was moving down the wall and he was sitting on the floor, eyes glazed in the direction of the wall opposite him.

Later, he can't recall how long he stayed there. The sun from one of the high windows slid across the floor and up the wall before disappearing entirely. Sometime after the hall had fallen into dim shadows Marie found him, shocked and concerned she pulled him up and led him back to their room. She lit the fire and he sat in front of it, watching the flames.

He didn't eat the food she brought.

He didn't answer Malfoy's irritated knocking on the door.

He just stared into the fire, a million thoughts, a million memories of her running through his head.

_It wasn't even possible._

_He'd seen her die._

_How was someone sending him a lock of her hair?_

_Even after all his efforts...he'd seen her DIE..._

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . .

"I love you," he said seriously, meeting her eyes from mere centimetres away.

She snorted, smiled. "You're such a sap."

Blaise chuckled and shook his head, moved from his position above her and settled back into the sheets beside her instead. He spared her a sideways glance. "That's a very inappropriate thing to say when your ragazzo confesses his undying love for you."

Ginny snorted again and laughed, turning on her side to pillow her head on his chest, snuggling into his warmth. "Maybe if you didn't say it like _that_..."

"Like what?" He asked, eyebrow raised.

"Like THAT! You're just so...so _serious," _she imitated his 'serious face' teasingly, "It's completely out of character. Like you've gone and turned into a Hufflepuff or something-"

"HEY!" he jerked away enough to see her smirking and gave her a very deep frown, "How can you say that? It's cruel beyond belief. I'm wounded – wounded to the core of my black, Slytherin heart."

She laughed at that, even managed to get one out of him too, just by the presence of her mirth. They laid there, basking in the afterglow in comfortable silence. Ginny ran her fingers idly over his bare chest; one of her favorite things about being naked with him was admiring how rich and dark his skin was next to hers. She paused in her movements to tip her hand back and forth, catch the small gem that sat on her finger in the moonlight that trickled in through the window, tinted by the lake.

His hand came up to catch hers; he cupped the dainty thing with care then brought her knuckles to his lips. "After this insanity has all passed, you can wear it openly...not just in the safety of these walls."

"I don't want to think about that -." At his rather put out look, she quickly amended, "_-no!_ I mean... I just... I don't want to think about what's going on _out there_. When we're here can we just, be _here_?"

"Of course," he agreed, relaxing again, humming contentedly at the feel of her stretching out against him, one bare leg snaking around both of his to leech his warmth.

Another stretch of silence and then, "I do too, you know."

He kissed the top of her head and ran his fingers through her impossibly long red locks, staring at the ceiling. "What, love?"

Ginny shifted, put her hands beneath her so she could sit up and look into his dark eyes as seriously as he had earlier. "Love you."

His mouth dropped open in a small _"o"_ of surprise.

She rarely spoke like so plainly about her feelings; she usually only opened up when she was worried or distressed. He knew she loved him, knew it without doubt or fear; she wouldn't have said 'yes' otherwise and she wouldn't be putting as much effort into keeping this a secret - though he argued it was for her safety even more than for his - if she didn't. He was used to her evasive comments and other shows of her affection and that was plenty enough for him; she was his queen and he would cherish her no matter how she acted or spoke... or _didn't_. As long as she DID still love him, he was hers forever.

He ran the backs of his knuckles up her light, freckled skin, arm to shoulder to cheek, lingering there with a sweet touch before offering her a grand smirk and tapping her on the nose. "I know."

She blinked at him once, twice, then let out a shaky laugh, allowing the relief that she wouldn't have to revert to some lovey dovey _girl_ in light of her blunt confession flood into her shoulders. "Prat." She smacked his chest.

Blaise purred warmly and tugged her by her wrists until she was straddling him again beneath the sheets. How many times had it been since they'd started? He tended to lose countwhen Malfoy would be so _kind_ as to make himself scarce for so many hours at a time until the late, late evening. He didn't know what the man was doing, didn't care to know, as long as he kept away for the time he said he would.

"So tell me, streghetta mia, how much do you love me?"

She grinned, weaving her fingers through his on each hand, settling herself over his thighs. "Not enough to let you win next week's game."

He did his best to give her a pout, but was much more preoccupied with not allowing his eyes to roll back at the way she'd started rocking her hips over his; he settled on a heavy lidded smolder, "That's not very much at all, gattina."

"It's enough," she teased him, feeling him harden between her thighs, against her. She continued to move, slowly, deliberately, coating him with the slickness from their last session and some new -_ to grow on_ - until he'd begun that low rumbling noise that was the clear indication of what was to come.

"Yes," he grunted when she jerked her hips roughly against his, her demanding little tell to let him know that she was very nearly done talking. He gave both of her hands a squeeze before releasing them and gripping her hips, guiding her back onto him for the...whatever-teenth time it was. His head sunk into the pillows and he loosed another low noise of bliss at the feel of her heat around him again. "Whatever you choose to give me is more than enough, patatina."

Ginny laughed, a very womanly part of her enjoying his groan at the way she clenched around him with the action. "Now I'm a potato? Now who's being inappropriate?"

He swept his hands from her hips up to the indent of her waist and back down, sparing a moment en route to brush the red curtain of her hair to the sides so he could see those perfect, beautiful breasts and the way they jiggled with every little movement. "I thought you liked it when I spoke Italian," he smirked knowingly, even as she punished him with another strangling squeeze to his prick with those delightful bits of hers – amazing what kind of muscles a broom rider develops over the years.

"Only when it's romantic," she said softly, head dropping back in pleasure with the rocking rhythm he'd established. "There's nothing sexy about pota-"

Her comment was cut short by her surprised yelp when Blaise shot up suddenly and flipped them so she was the one half buried in the remnants of bedding. She didn't even get to speak again because his hips were moving, driving into her with languid, sensual strokes that wound every single one of her nerve endings tight, just this side of snapping, only to unravel them again in the most pleasantly infuriating way she'd ever known, ever _would_ know. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him to her as closely as she could without stunting his motions.

He cradled her tightly in his arms, one arm looping around her middle beneath the curve of her spine and the other snaking up the length of her back to tangle his hand in her hair. She dug her nails into the meat of his shoulders when his lips came to rest at her ear and he declared himself to her, punctuated every sentence with another of those long, slow thrusts.

_"Ti voglio."_

_I want you._

Her hands smoothed down his arms, nails trailing lines over the muscles.

_"Ti amo."_

_I love you._

They slid back up and over, down the planes of his back.

_"Sei bellissima."_

_You're beautiful._

Her breath hitched beneath him when he tugged her lobe between his teeth, his voice husky and thick with his accent, sending more ripples of desire through her, down to her toes.

_"Sei la mia vita-"_

_You are my life-_

She sighed longingly.

_"-anima mia-"_

_-my soul-_

She cooed desperately.

_"-amore mia."_

_-my love._

She moaned out her pleasure into his cheek.

_"Con te voglio invecchiare..."_

She cried out beneath him, arched into his chest, leaning into the kisses he peppered over her cheek, her chin, her lips, her nose, everywhere he could reach as she came for him, for the sweet words that meant more to her than all the 'I love you's and all the gifts a privileged boy could give her.

_I want to grow old with you..._

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

He burst into his bedroom where she'd been lazing before having to return to her dorm.

The ferocity of his movements made her jerk upright, holding the sheets to her breast, feeling suddenly like she was over exposed. "Blaise what's-"

"Get dressed," he said urgently, scrambling around the room to gather her clothing for her.

She watched her fiancé with wide eyes. "Blaise! What's wrong?"

He stopped finally at her insistence but looked no less spooked. "Gin, it's happening. About to happen. Malfoy tipped me off, I don't know the specifics." That was a lie; he knew enough to know that she needed to run. "You need to get out of here. Go... go to our place, wait for me there."

She'd accepted the articles of clothing he'd salvaged for her, her shirt lost somewhere in their mess so she lifted one of his. He helped her slip into one of his wool coats as well, she let him fasten it and tuck her into his scarf so she could make the run into the forest without catching her death of cold.

"Blaise," she said softly, watching the way his hands were shaking as he worked, "I can't leave my friends."

They'd talked about it before and he'd always known it would come to this. When it finally happened, when the other shoe dropped, he'd always known he'd be standing with her, trying to convince her to flee for her safety and she would resist - Gryffindor 'til the end.

Blaise pleaded with her, his serious look the worst she'd ever seen as he cupped her face in both of his hands. He pressed a solid kiss to her lips, then pecked her nose, her forehead, swept her into a bruising hug and buried his face into her hair to inhale their mingled scents.

He knew enough to know that she needed to be clear of the castle, and that he'd likely never see her again. Whatever he would have to do to keep her safe, he would do it. An end was coming and he had no idea who was going to come out on top, but he knew what he was prepared to do to keep her safe and none of those things ended with them and an armful of bouncing toddlers.

"_Fiore mia,_" he whispered desperately into her hair, shutting his eyes so he could just _feel_ her there, "please go." He felt her arms close around his middle in a death grip; she must have finally understood the earnest plea for what it was.

Ginny buried her face against his neck, suddenly terrified because of the way he was acting. She took in the soothing notes of his expensive cologne and pulled back finally to see his eyes, open again and pleading.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay. I'll meet you there."

Relief flooded his body and he nodded, pulling her into another kiss before finally letting her go.

"Ginny," his voice stopped her at the doorway, "I love you."

She swallowed, eyes glittering because she wasn't an idiot; she met his stare with a watery smile. "I know."

She was rewarded with his soft laugh and a brilliant smile – gods, she loved that smile – before she turned and hastily made to dodge through the halls until she could make it to their secret spot in the forest where she would hide, and where she would wait, but she knew he wouldn't come. Their's wasn't the kind of story that had a happy ending.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

He was pushing through the halls, past the mass of chaos and panic; students, professors, Death Eaters, all of them flinging curses and hexes this way and that. He ducked and maneuvered through the growing piles of rubble, taking refuge in the little known cubbies and hallways throughout the castle that he and Ginny had discovered during the course of their frequent nighttime meetings.

The action didn't seem to be slowing down, didn't seem to be fading the way he'd expected it to; that is to say, not until that horrible raspy, serpentine voice slithered into all of their heads.

_Harry Potter...is DEAD._

It was as if a flood of ice water doused everything, every_one_.

Some of the more minor battles inside the school continued, but the taunting declaration seemed to cause every witch and wizard, light and dark, to pause wherever they were.

The murmurs made it through the halls quickly, the Dark Lord was in the courtyard with Potter's cold, dead corpse.

He didn't want to see, he didn't, but he had to -_ had to_ - just to... really be sure. He, like everyone else moved to gather there, to see the impossible had truly come to pass. By the time he made it there, there were other murmurs happening now.

Apparently, Draco had been the first to swear fealty to the Dark Lord. Now that Longbottom bloke was finishing speaking, making some sort of epic Gryffindor speech, one no doubt intended to rally the masses to the noble fight. Then, there was the laughter, the most chilling, _dark_ laughter he'd ever heard and it echoed throughout every single centimetre of the school.

Blaise was still pushing past bodies, elbowing people to make his way to the front to see as well; that's when he saw Pansy shoving her way in the opposite direction. The woman was several shades paler than he'd ever seen her, eyes huge and watery; she barely recognized him as he neared, but the moment she did, she snapped back to herself and stood her ground in front of him.

"Don't!"

He sneered, gave her a look between confused and disgusted with how she was clenching the sleeves of his blazer. "Out of my way, Parkinson."

"DON'T GO OUT THERE!" she screeched, digging her fingers in more firmly, frantically, "Blaise you don't need to see."

"See what?" he snapped, head turning back to the open doors, starting to move the woman aside.

"NO!" When he scowled at her the words just started flooding out in a stream of babbles, "H-he-he's got them there - going to kill them all -."

His brow creased. "Who?"

"W- Weasleys - "

She didn't even finish saying the name before he shoved her, _hard, _from his path, her and every other body standing between him and the open doorway.

Pansy had hounded him relentlessly about Ginny, always implying he thought she was attractive. He'd denied it adamantly of course, every time, keeping their cover as best he could, but he wasn't surprised that the busybody hadn't been fooled; funny time for her to start caring about anyone other than herself.

It only took a handful of steps to reach his destination but they were perhaps the longest steps he'd ever taken.

Sure enough, when he reached the edge of the short staircase to the courtyard he could see the whole Weasley family lined up, bound, gagged, and on their knees for all to see. He scanned their struggling forms, counting off each one as Malfoy's insane aunt walked the line gleefully with Greyback nearby to make sure there were no runners.

_Mister and Missus, one of the twins, Granger's love interest, the not-quite-werewolf, the prat - no sign of Ginny. _

His breath shuddered out of him in relief even as he began to try to figure out how to save any of his fiancee's remaining family.

Blaise Zabini was a brilliant wizard and a mediocre student. Unlike that irritating mudblood Malfoy stared at when he thought no one was looking, he didn't sit in the front row of classes waving his hand like a drowning man trying to get attention. Unlike Malfoy, he didn't have a father at home pressuring him to get good grades. Unlike both of them, he'd figured out fairly young that having skills in reserve no one suspected was a good idea so he'd decided to maintain the persona of the boringly average while learning everything he could.

If the assignment was to turn a matchbook into a mouse he'd see how precise he could be with his failures before finally doing it "right". A matchbook with whiskers. A mouse with matches for legs. Fire.

That one had made McGonagall stop and look at him so he'd rapidly changed it back and plastered a confused look on his face before spending the next month privately researching the art of transforming things into elementals and becoming reasonably adept at it. It wasn't something students were supposed to be able to do. It took more concentration than he had at his disposal right now.

_Maybe he could create a distraction._

_Maybe he could sacrifice himself and draw their fire._

_Maybe he could attack Bellatrix... see previous plan._

"Lady Bellatrix! Hold! We found another!"

His eyes snapped to the sound of a cocky female voice, one of the Carrow girls. He wasn't interested in her...but he was _very _interested in the dirtied, bruised, bleeding, and bound woman that she was shoving to the front of the line.

The insane witch's mad cackle rattled in his head for only a second before sound was washed out and the only thing he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.

He watched as his Ginny, his sweet flower, was kicked to her knees next to her father. A rag had been shoved into her mouth, once white, now smudged and soaked with varying shades of pink and red. She had twigs and brush stuck all kinds of ways in her long, now ratty, red hair and she wore a cold, hard expression for her captors, though even from his spot on the steps, he could see her fear plain as day.

They older crazy woman and the young one were chattering, cackling about how she was found in the woods, how she had abandoned her friends and her family and how she was brought back to die anyway. He only heard bits and pieces of it, he was too stunned, too frozen in shock at the look of her; one half of her face was bruised and swelling, the cuts on her exposed bits of skin still angry and weeping. She wasn't wearing his coat anymore, nor his scarf, the only thing left of his borrowed clothing was the nearly demolished powder blue shirt of his she wore - she'd teased him about it often, to which he'd always responded 'only confident men wear pastels'. She'd somehow spotted him as he stared at her in horror, caught his eyes and it was then that the sound came flooding back.

Bellatrix was rewarding this budding witch for her tenacity with the first go. Here's a reward: start the executions however you want.

He felt his feet moving, his wand gripped so hard that he thought he might snap the thing in two. An _avada_ was on the tip of his tongue, face twisted in a rabid snarl, with his arm swinging in the direction of the grinning witch that had his beloved's hair wrapped around her fist and her head yanked back to leave her neck completely exposed. Ginny struggled some and the Carrow girl tugged her roughly back in place, the jerky movement spilled her necklace from the barely intact neckline of his shirt. Her ring dangled from the chain, glinted in the light and caught his eye, as did the look she was giving him.

She smiled at him, that little lopsided kind of grin that she would give him on the pitch after she'd nearly knock him off his broom. It was subtle enough, it was for when they were hiding, for when others weren't supposed to see; it was _theirs_.

She shook her head, an imperceptible thing; and then he understood: his coat, his scarf, everything emblazoned with his house symbol or colors, all gone. She had discarded everything and anything that could link her back to him. Bloody fucking Gryffindors... even now, she was trying to protect _him_.

That realization stunned him mid-wand strike.

He came back to what was happening when the shrill scream came at his side, but his eyes were still locked on his love. Even as the dark, wicked metal of a large curving blade bit into the skin near one ear and carved through her flesh towards the other, opening a gaping wound in her neck that filled his vision with red, he held her gaze, didn't blink, didn't mov_e, couldn't_ - not until after her eyes had shut.

_All _the screams and shouts erupted then. The second batch of blood had been spilled and the heroes were trying to rally, even as hope was lost. Bodies broke into motion, more chaos, and they were storming into the courtyard.

Watching Ginny slaughtered before his eyes pushed Zabini to the limits of even his own impressive repertoire of spells.

He threw everything at her he could to try to save her, even to save her ridiculous family, and it didn't matter – it didn't fucking matter - and she was still lying there on the floor in a pool of her own blood. He must have gone a bit mad at that point because he was still casting at her, at the whole lot of them, when he heard Granger, a woman he barely tolerated, hiss at him as she fled – _was dragged from_ - the hall, "You promised me you would keep her safe. Promised me! This is _your_ fault, Zabini! I'll find you, you motherfucking, worthless, lying pureblood, and you'll pay."

The latter half of the battle was a blur of spells being flung in all directions by both sides.

Blaise had no conscious thought of his actions anymore by that point, everything was just a mass of red.

He didn't truly know what was going on again until it was over; that is to say, not until after Malfoy found him near the woods, away from the rest of the dying battle, chest heaving and staring blankly at the opened throat of Hestia Carrow as he stood, covered in her blood and _other_ things, amongst her scattered remains.

. . . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

He sat watching the flames, Marie snoring behind him on the couch.

_If she were alive…_

He clutched the envelope in one hand, rolling the red strands between the fingers of the other.

He thought of all he'd done to make it here, all he'd done in her name, _in her memory,_ and what he'd managed to accomplish while silently wallowing in his misery.

Imagine if she were alive...

_Everything would be different if she were alive..._

_. . . . . . . . . . . ._

_**A/N – **__Thank you to all our lovely readers and reviewers. JennyFelton, qiana, Rose Davis, TheFantabulousPotterHead, Darisy, Guest, Calimocho, dracosgirl007, pagyn, batcat4eternity, LadiePhoenix007,my name is mommy, Artemisgodess_

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and__lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	13. Chapter 12 - If You Could Have Anything

Blaise took one hair – one precious strand – and attached it to a piece of parchment. All he wrote was, "Where? When?"

Everything would be different if she were alive. Everything.

He dropped the message off on the way to another miserable dinner with Nott and Malfoy. And Granger.

. . . . . . . . . .

Nott sat in the dining room, enjoying what passed for dinner in this wretched place. He'd managed to convince the cooking staff to bathe and had offered 'encouragement' to find a head cook who could actually, well, _cook_, and things had gotten better. Not what he would call 'good,' but better.

He had a terrible feeling, however, this was as good as it would get and that no amount of further 'encouragement' would result in any more improvement.

So he sat and fed his pet, fed himself, and discreetly watched Malfoy, Zabini, and Evans.

Zabini was distracted about something; he barely acknowledged Malfoy's admittedly desultory attempts at conversation. He'd been assigned on missions with the man enough times to know this was not his usual style and since he was making rather impressive progress on tracking down the spy networks in and out of the castle he shouldn't be frustrated about work.

So it was something non-work related.

Very interesting.

Still, Zabini wasn't really worth going after. While gathering material for future blackmail was never a bad choice, Malfoy was the real prize on this assignment. "He doesn't have a lot of friends," his own supervisor had said, lounging against his desk before Nott had left to come up to this barely civilized outpost. "He just keeps getting the job done. But if he didn't get the job done, if that could be proven, well, there'd be a lot of people happy with the man who made Malfoy go away for good."

The problem was, Malfoy _was_ getting the job done.

He'd repaired the castle, cleaned up the village, locked trade and information routes down. The routes that weren't closed down Zabini was tracking, weaseling his way into the data stream. Malfoy was running organized and meticulous sweeps of the surrounding areas and it was only a matter of time before he found the rebels and then... well, murder and mayhem would ensue. The man's only real weakness was his off-putting Granger fetish.

Looking at the glamoured bint made Nott's stomach turn. She simpered under that mass of frizzy hair. She talked about some sex book she was reading as though it were literature. She _tittered_. He was fairly sure her fingernails were dirty. And, most revolting of all, she looked at Malfoy as if he were wonderful. _Wonderful_. Malfoy only glanced at her occasionally but, when he did, it was clear she thoroughly and utterly amused him. More, it looked like he might actually be fond of, or more than fond of, the stupid whore.

The only redeeming quality the woman had was how utterly terrified of him she was; whenever she caught him looking at her – something she was surprisingly good at noticing – she shrank back into her chair or edged a little closer to Malfoy. Her fear was almost intoxicating, as well as the only sign of wit the woman had yet to display; however stupid she was she knew he was dangerous. Nott had a lurking suspicion that, unlike Zabini, she didn't make the mistake of assuming he was daft. Nott glanced over at his own little toy and ran his thumb along her jaw. Her own flinch, the way her breath hitched, ah, that was lovely too, and it was loveliness attached to a woman who was more than pleasant to look at. After dinner he would have to enjoy her for a bit.

Nott could _almost_ understand having a thing for Granger, assuming you turned the lights out. She had been brilliant, a mudblood, yes, and unattractive, yes, but brilliant. This Evans woman combined Granger's unfortunate appearance with complete idiocy. It was the worst of both worlds.

Still, if you put aside the girl issue – which wasn't easy – maybe going against Malfoy was betting on the wrong horse. For a man who consistently pissed everyone off, he'd managed to do quite well for himself. And he was competent. And he recognized and valued competence.

The world was shockingly lacking in competent people.

So Nott watched the man and considered his options.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat on the bed using Draco's wand to idly turn her dreadful novel into a wine goblet and back again. The owner of said wand sat with his back to her, making up schedules for the following week, his quill movements crisp and economical. She knew, though, for all his apparent ease with her holding his wand he was aware of every movement she made. He was too alert, his posture too perfect.

Finally, without turning around, he asked, "Aren't you afraid you won't get all the words back in the right order in that book with all your fiddling?"

She snorted at that. "I doubt," she began, eying the cup as it lost its dull, tinny sheen and flattened into pages and ink again, "I could make it worse. Whoever lived in this place before your lot took it over had terrible taste in books."

"Statuary too," he muttered. "Aesthetes they weren't."

"It's lurid, grammatically dubious, and I remain unsure that everything the author describes is biologically possible and, _trust me_, I've been trying some of them with you."

He laughed at that, picturing some of the more bizarre things she'd been suggesting lately. If she'd been pulling them from that book she was right; they weren't all possible. He turned, then, to look at her. The curly-haired witch was sprawled across his bed, utterly relaxed in his presence at last with her feet kicking idly in the air. She'd taken to stealing his shirts again in lieu of the nicer things he'd tried to convince her to wear; this time she was wearing one over the long silk slip he'd given her, this time, he found himself smirking at the picture she made instead of the alternative.

"If they're so bad why are you reading them?"

"It's not like I have that much to do," she shrugged. "I've begun to understand why medieval women did so much embroidery. Anything - ANYTHING - to pass the time. There's only so much time I can spend moaning your name, Malfoy."

"Lord Malfoy," he corrected automatically.

"Oh, please," she rolled onto her back and began pointing his wand at the ceiling. "Would you stop insisting on the inane title when we're in our room? I'll simper and 'lord' you at dinner, in the halls but, Merlin, we've known each other since we were eleven and we've known each other since in ways I'd never considered."

He sighed at her and muttered, "You are going to be the death of me," before adding, "hand it over."

She gave the wand one last caress, a little twirl between her fingers, and then, turning onto her stomach, tossed it to him; his reflexes, still honed, grabbed it from the air. "If you could have anything, Granger," he drawled, "if I could, say, wave a magic wand and give you your heart's desire, what would it be?"

He waved the wand above his head and she laughed as it left an arc of sparkles in its wake. He watched her nose crinkle and thought, with predatory fondness, how adorable she was relaxed like this, responding to him as a person, not just as a body. Making her laugh was worth the trouble.

She didn't answer, though, just rolled back and returned to staring at the ceiling, hands resting over her belly and picking at the buttons of his shirt. After a minute or two of watching her in silence he said, "No, really. What would you want if you could have anything?"

He watched her almost deflate in front of him. Gone was the laughing, adorable woman and in her place was the defeated witch he'd begun to hate seeing; it wasn't right that his witch should be so worn down, so defeated. It was a problem he knew he'd have to remedy once and for all, even if he didn't yet know how. He would work through it in time, figure a way for it to become an exception rather than a rule. Right now, though, now he was more concerned with bringing back the levity to her mood; to bring back that glow about her when she was most at ease. Draco pushed off from his seat to join her on the bed, settling near her and the discarded novel and took to running his fingers through those curls with, for once, no amorous intent.

"To be at peace," she said in a whisper. "To not be afraid I'll be hunted down and killed for my birth, for my name."

She pulled herself towards him a little, laid her head in his lap and his breath caught for a moment. Hermione Granger was, of her own volition, taking some form of comfort from him. He adjusted his legs until she was pillowed more comfortably there, brushing wild strands from her cheeks.

Hermione sighed wistfully. "I'd like to be able to be me, not Helen Evans. I'd like to be free."

"You don't crave some dramatic resistance victory?" he asked, genuinely surprised at the smallness of her dreams.

"I'm not likely to get any of those things without a dramatic victory, not that I really have any hope of that left." She shrugged again at the admission, as though it were nothing to admit that she understood completely the frivolity of her fight. "To flee to some corner of the world where... you people... don't control everything, that's the only way I'm ever likely to not be a constant refugee." She was silent for a moment. "Or your whore."

"You're not a whore," he objected. She was his mistress, it was totally different; a mistress was socially acceptable, could be publicly acknowledged. He wanted… he wanted to be able to… but that wasn't possible. Was it?

"I'm trading compliance for... what you promised. It may not be quite as straightforward as '20 knuts for a blow job' but it's hard to see it as anything other than a transaction." She lay silent for a few more minutes, then asked, "What would you want. If I could wave, well, _your_ wand and give you anything, what would it be?"

She dragged her arm in an arc above her, waggling her fingers as if she were trying to shake magic out of them and he found that she'd managed to trick a laugh out of him. She looked pleased about it too, with some of that humour seeping back in to chase away the shadows of things they both understood but knew were best left to lie.

Still, like her he found that thinking about what he really wanted from life was sobering. He went back to stroking those curls for a bit before saying, "I'd like to not be chained to a job with subtle threats. I'd like to not have to worry I'll offend the wrong person and find myself remanded to Nott's custody for questioning. I'd like to," he paused and looked down at her, thinking about the constraints placed on his every move, thinking of what he could do, what he could _have_ if only_.._. "I'd like to be... unlimited."

. . . . . . . . . .

Where did he leave them? They couldn't be far, he'd had the lot of them when he came back from dinner.

Draco mentally retraced his steps again for the hundredth time.

He'd gone down to dinner, taken the stack of letters from the young scrub of a man handing them over and set them aside through the meal. He'd definitely brought them back though, he remembered having them in hand when Granger whispered in his ear about the new thing she'd wanted to try, then he'd -_ of course!_

He stopped his idle pacing in the hall and turned on his heel, heading down to the room they'd officially turned into their brandy room. He'd picked up a new bottle before locking himself away with the witch and her experiments and must have left them there in his haste to return to her.

Careless, fucking careless, Malfoy, he chastised himself.

She was trouble, he knew, but she was _his _trouble and she'd sung so delightfully for him tonight that even now, he was growing eager to return. He'd gotten a peek at the mail before they'd all sat down to eat, though, and there was something from headquarters that had come in, a seal straight from his commander's desk that needed prompt attention now that he could think with the proper head.

Draco walked swiftly down the hall, past the eerily silent section outside of Nott's room, and straight to the liquor cabinet. He exhaled heavily and shook his head, seeing the small pile of envelopes sitting there, precisely where – and, more importantly, _how_ - he'd left them.

Snatching up the stack, he tromped back towards his room, shuffling through the envelopes until he found the one he'd glanced at earlier in the evening. Breaking the seal, he pulled the letter out to read, walking blindly with such confidence back to his quarters it would've made the Italian jealous. His eyes scanned over the encoded words, a glare darkening his features the more he read and worked out the real message.

_...congratulate you on your turnaround of the outpost..._

_..blah blah fires are growing in the south - more shite - we've still got no foothold in the task of cleansing the streets of the rebellion.._

Dracostopped, freezing at the entrance to his suite when he got to the final lines on the parchment. His jaw ticked and his dark look nearly burnt holes through the paper.

_Your mother is well. While she refrains from conversation most days, I know she wishes for you to come home and is concerned for your safety. As I mentioned, the fires are growing and safety is rapidly becoming some concern. As a precaution, I have installed additional servants to be certain she is being cared for_ _adequately around the clock as the local threats continue to grow._

_I look forward to your next status update._

. . . . . . . . . .

"_Draco-_"

Her mouth dropped open, eyes shut in pleasure as her thighs hovered over his in a new and absolutely amazing way; brightest fucking witch of her age, indeed. Maybe those books weren't wholly bad. She took him so shallowly in such a maddening rhythm, his name tumbling out intermittently, and he was quite sure that this was much better than hearing her address him by his proper title - much, _much_ better. He gripped her hips and moved her, repositioned her some so he could contribute more easily, less awkwardly than just humping at the air like some kind of animal.

She made a whimper with his adjustment, a whimper first of pleasurable things that swiftly turned into a shocked yelp of pain and she was rolling off of him entirely, clutching at her leg.

Shocked at the sudden turn of events, he followed her, sitting up and looking her over to see what the bloody hell happened; no flaming boulders crashing through a window, no arseholes busting in the room, no hexes being flung about from anyone -

"Granger!" his eyes scanned her body, hands going to try and peel hers away from her leg. She swatted at him a few times and then started laughing even as tears were leaking from her eyes. What-the-_fuck_? "Granger!" he snapped at her and scowled, "Have I finally succeeded in fucking your brains out?"

The woman howled at that, half in laughter, half in pain, rolling onto her side.

He hadn't really meant it to be funny. "Granger -"

"Cr-cramp," she managed between chuckles and deliberately controlled breaths through her teeth, "my leg, it cramped."

Draco blinked and looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. Sure enough, her hands were gripping one of her calves and between her fingers' attempts at soothing the traitorous body part, he could see the muscle seizing and twitching. She must have been so precariously balanced before that his modification to her position sent the whole operation into a tailspin.

So, basically, she - _Hermione Granger_ - got a leg cramp from riding his cock.

He snorted.

That turned into a chortle.

That then dissolved into his own share of rather boisterous laughter at the very ludicrous concept.

"I'm glad you - _ah, shite!_ - you still seem to be enjoying yourself, Lord Malfoy," she meant it to be snarky but her own laughter undercut that.

The sound of his formal title sent him into another round of snickering, snorting, almost-guffaws at the absurdity of it all. When he was able to compose himself again, he coaxed her onto her back and finally succeeded in shooing her hands away from her calf.

"What are you do-AH!" she squeaked then loosed a long, low hiss when his thumbs dug into the ornery meat of her calf.

Draco smirked, propping her small foot on his shoulder and resting his cheek against her ankle while he rubbed the muscle into submission. He could feel it - _her_ - loosening, relaxing under his touch and grinned at the quiet stream of colorful curses that left her at the different stages of his progress.

Hermione's head sank heavily into their pillows and she released a low, involuntary moan at a particularly good rub that sent a shiver straight through her. "_Mmmm_..._fuck_...where did you learn that?" she asked from behind half-lidded eyes.

He finished rubbing out one other knot near the back of her knee, eliciting more pleasurable moans from the woman, before running his hands over her skin and sitting back on his haunches, moving his attention to her foot. "Afraid that's classified information, Granger."

She opened her mouth again to speak and another moan tore free instead when he dragged his knuckles up along the arch of her foot from heel to toe in the most magnificent way she'd ever felt. Her eyes rolled back and, gods, it was nearly as good as an orgasm.

_Draco-fucking-Malfoy, Lord of Foot Massages._

Her lashes fluttered and she caught his look just as he was starting to dot kisses along the side of her still tender leg. She bit at her lip, worried it between her teeth and saw those eyes darken again - the man was insatiable; she found herself smirking at the thought and he raised an eyebrow in question.

Hermione trailed her hands lightly over her bared chest and stomach, down over her thigh of the leg he cradled until she had to just extend her fingers in his direction and reach for him. "_Draco_," she beckoned.

His smirk spread and he spared her a few more kisses to her calf before he slid it back down to rest at his side, crawling up the length of her body and into those waiting arms. She looped them around his neck and he gave her a contented hum when her fingers slid up through his hair to pull him closer. She let him settle between her thighs, let him press against her again, part her just barely as he spoke against her mouth, "What is it you need, Granger?"

She exhaled shakily, ghosting her lips over his in the same, lightly swirling way he was moving his hips to tease her to her wits end. "_Fuck me._"

The thrill of chills that zipped down his spine at the ragged command made his hips twitch, but he stilled them, _barely_. He _was_ still the Commander here. "Forgetting something?" he rumbled, giving her the chance to correct herself, give him a 'please'.

"_Now. _I want you _now._" She tightened her grip in his hair, jerking his face to hers, closing the scant distance between them with a kiss that could only be described as ravenous.

Draco growled against her, sinking into her fully as his control snapped and he completely tossed away whatever it was he'd been trying to accomplish before.

She wanted him.

She'd said it. He knew it. He'd known. But it was different to hear her _say_ it.

He lost himself in her urgent noises, her hands in his hair, her lips on his skin, his name on her tongue, all crying out for him, pleading.

_She __**wanted**__ him._

She'd fucking _said_ it.

He buried himself in her, again and again, pulling those sweet, tantalizing moans from her every time, utterly oblivious to the way her own name - _Hermione_ - kept tumbling free in strangled whispers at her ear.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione had hesitated when he'd asked her to lead him to her meeting place. Malfoy had known it was a significant request; betray your side to me, is what he was asking. He hadn't been sure she would do it, even though he'd believed her when she'd said that she had stopped communicating with them. Things were progressing nicely with her but he still had a job to do, still had to give the Dark Lord something to placate him while he walked the steps of a soldier and plotted ways to be free of the snake's coils.

She'd finally said, tightly, "Let's go for a picnic in the woods. A walk. If I happen to accidentally follow paths I've walked before, well..."

He'd ordered the picnic basket, led her from the walls and, wrapped in cloaks and coats and blankets, they'd set out. They'd started silently, she'd picked her way across stones, scrambled down a small rocky cliff, stepped over fallen trees. At last she said, "I've missed being outside."

"It's nice to get away from… everything," he agreed, taking her hand, weaving his fingers through hers and silently preening with how readily she did the same.

She laughed at that. "I don't have a lot of 'everything' to get away from. I spend most of my days cooped up in your room. Our room."

He lifted her over a particularly muddy spot. She was as light as a feather; he would have to work on getting her more food more regularly or he'd risk her wasting away. "I forget about that," he said truthfully. "I've got so many things I'm juggling, trying to find the… trying to find people. Figuring out what Zabini's game is. Keeping Nott on a tight leash. It's like walking a wire with alligators under you while birds try to peck out your eyes."

"Why do you do it?" she asked, the question light and airy but she was obviously paying attention, looking for something, even as she picked her way through the trees, kicking up piles of dried leaves. "You have money, a wand. Why not just... go. Just go to France or Italy or… _anywhere_."

He laughed at that, a bitter tone that surprised her. "I'm as chained to this job as Nott's little toy is to his chair. No one asked whether I wanted to be the Dark Lord's enforcer and most people hope I fail."

They walked in silence for a while. Hermione still held onto him, leading him along in a deceptively sweet stroll through the woods. Her gait was relaxed but precise, picking paths through the wood that, to a casual observer, would look like she was simply wandering; he watched her and he knew better. A gloved hand glanced across the bark of a tree in a familiar way, a hop was taken, without looking down, over a small upturned root covered by leaves, a step to the left of a boulder instead of right avoiding a sinkhole covered with fallen branches - she may not have ventured here since they'd become... whatever it was they'd become, but her body knew the way.

The forest was thinning, though it wasn't until she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and spoke that he noticed.

"It's because of your mother, isn't it?"

He paused for just a moment, one foot halfway over a puddle that had a thin sheet of ice tracing spider webs across its surface, before he responded. "What makes you say that?"

"The first night." She's stopped, dropped his hand gently and he had to turn to look at her. She looked back, head tilted to one side as she studied him. "Nott said something about your 'mommy issues.' I doubt those issues are Oedipal."

He scrunched his nose briefly and shook his head. "She's an honored guest at Headquarters," he grimaced, thinking of the most recent letter, then continued, "I believe my last commander said she brought grace and civilization to their dinner table. She has servants, luxuries. She's fine."

The witch wasn't fooled.

"Servants who watch her?" Hermione still wasn't moving, was still watching his face and Malfoy felt, inexplicably, that he was at some crossroads and his fate, their fate, rested on his answer.

Choose wisely, a voice whispered in his head. She's about to give you something, if you just choose wisely.

"Yes," he said, watching her in return.

She nodded, stepped over that puddle and took his hand again. "That must be difficult," was all she said but he felt that something had happened, that she'd made some decision that had nothing to do with sex and had everything to do with something far more fragile.

She pulled him off to the right, began telling him some story as she led him more directly through the woods. At first he just watched the light play on her hair but then began to listen to her, _actually_ listen.

She was talking, not just talking, but sharing some funny anecdote about something that had happened with a pig and he realized she was steering the conversation away from his mother, away from the different flavors of prison all three of them lived in in this brave new world. He realized he was grateful to her for that.

It wasn't the most comfortable feeling.

Still, she soon had him laughing and by the time they'd reached the little stone cabin in a tiny clearing he felt happy – actually happy – for the first time since… since he couldn't remember.

"Let's picnic here," she said, giving him a look, and then he knew. This was the place she came to meet with the resistance. It certainly wasn't their headquarters, it wasn't that at all. It was an old stone structure, just one room, with the ceiling falling in and the remains of some rotted wood furniture under those collapsed beams. But it was a gift, a gift from her to him. She was, if not changing sides, helping him. Helping him just a little.

"Thank you," he said, and pulled her into a kiss that soon had her laughing even as she gasped against him, nudging his icy fingers away from her bodice.

"It's too cold here for that!" she exclaimed and he raised his eyebrows as if to ask, "is that a challenge?"

. . . . . . . . . .

The man watched them.

Hermione, leading Malfoy right to her meeting point, laughing the whole time. _Kissing_ the bastard_. _He had a horrible feeling if he stayed he'd see a lot more than that. From the sound of her, he would bet on it.

She had to be imperiused, _had to be_, he told himself.

He supposed that was kinder than Malfoy just beating her into submission. He supposed he should be glad she wasn't being tortured.

Funny, the things war makes you grateful for.

He hoped, if she survived the whole of Malfoy's stay at the castle, that she would be able to forgive herself for what she was doing under his spell.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N - Thank you, as always, for reading, for reviewing, for following along with us on this strange little journey.

Much love to our reviewers: Delancey654, Because Banana, thfourteenth, MorningSnow03, Grovek26, CasaCan, Artemisgodess, qiana, ladymagna1100, batcat4eternity, Rose Davis, Emmeebee, annabell213, punkrocksammy, Calimocho, S. Wright.


	14. Chapter 13 - Taking Care of Things

Zabini's feet carried him swiftly through the halls, eyes darting everywhere but the direction he was going; it was typical for him but tonight he was more aware, more cautious than he'd ever been walking these corridors. This was his twelfth and final trip to gather the last of the directions to – what? Her? A trap? - and he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. It felt like someone was watching him, but that was silly. He'd waited until early evening when everyone would be in their rooms; Nott was doing whatever torrid things he did to that girl of his, Malfoy was... well he was certainly acting funny lately, but he was locked away with Granger as per the norm, and as for himself, well, he'd left Marie with drugged tea and a promise to return later. Zabini was an old hat at this now, much too practiced at retrieving these messages to be caught so easily. Still, knowing it would all be revealed to him tonight put him on edge.

Giving the hall another quick look, he turned again and ducked into a nook behind an ugly, dust covered tapestry on the ground floor. The number of things that could be in this nasty little cubbyhole, things he'd much rather not think about, made his saliva turn sour, but he shook it off. Nevertheless, not wanting to spend any more time than was necessary in this dank hole he located the loose rock and pulled out another envelope. Like all the times before, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat and walked his routine patrol route around the castle before he returned to his suite. Never break your patterns, he thought; when you break your pattern people notice.

"Marie," Blaise called softly as he always did upon returning. When he received no answer, he scanned the room, hand hovering at his holster. "Marie?" he said again.

Met with only silence, he drew his wand and took a careful step towards the hearth where he'd left her last. He'd most definitely locked the door - less to keep her in and more to keep disturbing people like the men he traveled with _out_ - and not a thing had been out of place with the lock when he'd returned. Still, you couldn't be too careful. Another step, then another - her glorified, pornographic picture book was on the ground, peeking from around the edge of the foot of the bed - he approached the corner of the bed with a grimace. Images of dead girls, _of a very specific dead girl, _swirled around in his mind the closer he got to that tight blind corner; everywhere he'd been, intentions as good as they could be, he left dead girls in his wake. Shaking off the thoughts, memories, whatever they were, he took that corner and as soon as the slave girl's form came into view he let out a sigh of relief.

She was, as a matter of fact, practically where he left her. She was still in that small space by the hearth between the fireplace and the bed, but she'd tucked herself awkwardly against the side of the mattress, half-sitting and clearly drugged out of her gourd. Her cheek was smooshed against the blankets overhanging his side of the bed and the little wet trail of drool suggested that, at some point, she'd been pillowing her head atop it and in her unconsciousness, slid partway down the side. The tea, and with it the sleeping draught he'd slipped into it, were drained dry.

Zabini swiped a hand over his face, realizing only then that he'd been shaking from the thought of yet another dead girl. Now that the anxiety was gone he felt a prickle of irritation that she was so near his bed. She knew the rules, never _ever_ in the bed, no woman was allowed there anymore, not since...

He shook his head again. It wouldn't do to get distracted, not when he was so close. He scooped Marie up and set her onto her couch with blankets and an extra pillow; it was, he supposed, an apology of sorts for drugging her every time he set out to get one of these pieces of his puzzle. Checking one more time to make sure she was still snoring away, he pulled out the newest envelope, along with the parchment he'd been assembling; that one never left his person, not even for even a _second_.

His mysterious contact had been feeding him the bits and pieces of these encoded instructions. They were likely testing him and his loyalty to the cause, even now. He couldn't blame them, he supposed, he _was_ still sitting comfortably on the loathsome winning side. Anyone who planned to join the rebels at this point had to be an idealist or an idiot and as he was clearly neither they were right to be suspicious. But if they had her... if they actually had her, then he was theirs, or, rather, hers.

The instructions were, frankly, a fucking nightmare. He'd never liked puzzles and this one was a bitch. He hadn't even learned how the pieces were supposed to go together until a few days after he'd picked up the fourth piece. Once he had four of the bloody things, though, he'd realized they weren't gibberish, as they'd first seemed, but all smaller bits of a larger document that could be lined up and attached into one, still wholly incomprehensible, parchment.

The sixth clue had been a note that said, _'revealed by the north star' _and a funny piece of a post card with a night scene printed on one side; what he assumed, was the "north star" was in a corner of the card, dominating the scene with a tiny hole burned into its center along with several other, sporadically burned holes on the rest of it. Like all of the clues it made no bloody sense but he tucked it away with the slowly growing parchment.

After the picture postcard there had been more bits of parchment to meld into what he thought of as the main clue then, at last, the eleventh clue completed the parchment and finally answered some of his questions. Where, he'd been asking. When? That one at last answered _when, _reading, _'Come early, two days,'_ and _'as soon as it's safe. We'll meet that night.'_

Of course, _where_ was still unknown and he hoped tonight's clue would help him figure that out.

Looking at tonight's envelope, though, he thought he might burst a blood vessel. His "instructions" consisted of a final square shaped note, meticulously folded in a funny sort of way, with the words,_ 'Make a twin, start at 1, the star will show you the way' _hand written on its folded surface.

"What the bleedin' hell?! I'm not a bloody Ravenclaw," he snarled at the things in frustration, pulling a startled grunt from the girl behind him. Blaise scowled but quieted his temper and, when he was sure she was still deeply under the effects of his draught, he turned back to the decoder sheet. "Make a twin...a twin...make a fucking twin of _what_? Of _THIS?_"

Frowning at the paper and sparing a brief glance through his window at the night's sky, he started unfolding the object, not sure how long this person was willing to wait for him to show.

_Fuck, this place better not be far,_ he growled internally.

With every unfolded corner, Blaise realized that the little thing wasn't nearly as complex as he'd thought it was. In fact, the more he opened it up, the more it reminded him of something... something from school, he was sure. He nudged a couple more of the edges open until the sheet was laying flat again and he tried to remember where it was he'd seen this kind of creasing and folding before.

_Vertical, dead center... another horizontal, also center... corner to corner one way, corner to corner the other... it looked a lot like-_

A shocked, strangled chuckle left him as soon as he realized what the bloody thing resembled.

It couldn't be... it really fucking COULDN'T be.

He started re-folding it to see if it was; he folded just how he remembered, just how she'd shown him whenever he would make fun of her and that Looney girl "playing kid games" with their paper fortune tellers. He remembered Granger, back when he just disliked her instead of absolutely loathing her, nagging them with her "divination of any kind is rubbish" smug bullshite. Ginny would always toss her hair and say he was just jealous because he didn't know how to make them; he'd try to copy her and he'd always fail - _intentionally_ - and every time, she would show him, leaning up against his side, giving him her little mischievous grin.

He felt a smile, sad and sweet, tugging at his mouth at that memory. God, they'd been so innocent, playing their games as if folded paper could reveal what kind of witch or wizard any of them would marry, how many children they would be sending to Hogwarts one day. None of the fortune tellers had read, "you'll live in hell" or "you'll see everything you love slaughtered in front of you." He wanted to cry realizing that the muscle memory of this childhood frivolity was what was going to lead him to her.

He frantically started working at the real puzzle, creasing and folding and flipping, and creasing and folding and flipping again until the parchment resembled one of the delightfully absurd little fortune tellers, a folded twin of the little note he'd gotten. And, then, the full picture emerged. All the letters that had just been a senseless jumble fell into lines and swirls and numbers lined the edges of the paper, front and back.

Grinning to himself, he fished the piece of post card from the pile and summoned a quill and fresh piece of parchment. When he lined up the north star's cutout with the number "1", the letters that he could see through the other holes in the card were revealed as words - _directions_.

Blaise scribbled down his directions as quickly as he could and still be able to read them, and with as much care as he could muster around the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he tore through the halls and disappeared into the night.

All the while he urged himself to be alert, to be on guard, but he could barely think beyond his racing thoughts of, _"She's alive, they've got her, she's got to be alive. Please let her be alive"_

. . . . . . . . . .

"Where are you going?"

Draco Malfoy sighed and finished fastening his belt. "You can keep asking but you know I still won't tell you that."

Hermione frowned from her spot on the bed, chewing at her lip. "It's late."

"Which would be why I'm leaving _now_."

"Do the others know?"

Draco paused, finally glancing over his shoulder at her. She was perched on the edge of their bed, her hands bunching and kneading a section of the sheets in something that vaguely resembled "worry". Weeks ago, he would've pegged that worry as her concern for herself, lest the only thing keeping her safe and alive, were to disappear into the darkness of night and never return; now, he wasn't so sure it was _just _that. He lifted his coat off the back of his chair and crossed to her while slipping it on. "I'll be back before they notice."

Her frown deepened at the evasive comment and she sat up on her knees as he neared. She came up to eye level with him that way, smoothing her hands over his chest when he was within reach. "That means no."

He scowled, but settled his hands at her hips anyway, unable to wholly resist the lure of touching her. "They're not my keepers, Granger," he said, "I'm the commander of this outfit and if my duties take me outside these walls to get something done, I don't actually have to report that to them."

"But this doesn't have anything to do with 'your duties' does it?" she questioned, the bossy look she'd worn so often in school on her face while she stared into his eyes without flinching.

"You forget your place," he muttered, not quite able to decide whether he was irritated with her for questioning him or pleased by her show of spirit, by her apparent concern for him. Either way, he was reconsidering his decision to not knock her out for the duration of his little errand. He hadn't wanted to leave her prone and vulnerable while he was away, but he hadn't expected her to be quite so pushy and inquisitorial either.

Undeterred, Hermione snapped at him, "And _you _forget that I'm not an idiot, Malfoy!"

He surprised her by dipping his head to catch those angry lips in a kiss instead of correcting her. He felt her hands clench at the fabric of his shirt and she made a rather ornery noise at being silenced, but he persisted, slipping a hand into her curls to keep her close, working at her mouth with a warm press of skin and a series of tugs and nibbles until she sighed. Only when she'd relaxed did he pull away, their foreheads still touching and he let his eyes run over her.

The promise of protection, the reintroduction of magic into her life - even if it never left the comfort of these four walls - had given her back so much of her fire, her backbone. She became again the witch that had hypnotized him all these years, yet, if he was being honest, she was still stunted here. She would never be free like this, waiting at the door for him to return from his work for the chance to transform furniture into... _other furniture _with his borrowed wand and borrowed time. It was exactly why he couldn't let her distract him, couldn't let her dissuade him from this meeting.

"Quite the contrary..." he said softly, brushing her hair from her cheeks.

"It's dangerous out there." Her arms looped around his neck and he could tell she was actually really and truly worried.

The way she'd said it was not just cautionary, but factual; she _would_ know, after all. "Perhaps for you," was all he said.

"For anyone."

Hermione grimaced and moved to trail her fingers across the sharp angles of his cheekbones in a way she never did. All of her touches had had a purpose before, a plan; to manipulate his obsession, to curb him this way or that, to use what few tricks she had to bend the man to her will, but this one, this was purely selfish and all for her; she took heart in knowing he wouldn't recognize the difference. Her brow creased deeply when she thought of how organized this segment of the resistance was. She may not have made it into their headquarters, didn't know who was responsible for it all, but she'd seen what they'd done for her and she knew how long they'd been whittling away at this outpost - commander after commander. They may not have gained a great deal of ground, but they hadn't lost _any_ either. For Malfoy to be wandering through the wood or even the village, alone, at night, in what had long ago become the _home _of these rebels to get to wherever this meeting was to occur...

"It's not worth it," she added quickly, coolly, forcing her hands away from his face to rest again at his chest. She looked him in the eyes and repeated herself firmly, "It's not worth it, whatever fool thing you've got in your head to do is not worth the risk. It's dangerous out there."

This blunt display of concern shocked him, but he managed to mask the surprise in his tone. "Why Granger, if I didn't know better, I'd think you cared," he teased, watching that flicker in her eyes that had nothing to do with the firelight. Merlin, she owned him with that flicker.

"Malfoy-"

He cut her off with another kiss, this one more insistent than the last to drown out the "please" he saw forming on those lips. Hermione Granger didn't beg, not him, never had, and he would help her remember that. Even in his bed, her pleas for his hands or his mouth or his tongue were all bossy demands, coos and whimpers or moans that left him no other choice but to obey. What's more... if she said "please" he wasn't sure what he'd be compelled to do, though he was certain it wouldn't involve leaving her in this dank castle in the dead of night with snakes around every corner.

"I'll be back by sunrise," he said as soon as their lips were free. He gave her hair one last appreciative stroke and left the warmth of her body. She was glowering at him, he felt it at his back, but he grabbed his cloak anyway and left before she could draw him back with any of the considerable tools she had at her disposal. Locking and warding the suite behind him, he left the castle as quickly as he could.

Draco never once looked back, didn't doubt his steps for a moment. Only one thought repeated in his head like a mantra:_ My witch will want for nothing._

. . . . . . . . . .

Theodore Nott sat in front of the fire, slowly pulling a brush through his pet's hair. It had been a lovely color even when he'd first seen her, even when it was dirty and matted, a diamond in the rough, truly. Now that she was able to devote considerable time to caring for herself the golden sheen of it almost mesmerized him.

He really didn't care for slovenliness; it spoke to a sloppy, careless mind, to a lack of pride in oneself. His things must be beautiful, always, and meticulously maintained.

So he sat, working the brush through her hair, stopping to gently tease out a snarl, stopping later to slide his hand over the flawless strands. He gathered some in his fist and admired it; tugging her head back against him with a sharp yank he thrilled to her sudden, gasping inhalation. She was such a treasure, this one. He put his hands across her throat as she lay there in his lap, pliantly enough but already starting to shudder in anticipation of what he might do to her, then he sighed. "Alas, pet, I think you need at least another day to recover before we play again." He gave her a little shove and she sat back up, tossing that glorious hair with a little petulant sulk that made him laugh.

"Sit," he ordered, and began pinning her hair up onto her head and off her back. He was right, he thought, examining the marks he'd left. She needed at least another day, maybe even two. He pulled a jar towards him and, opening it, began to slowly rub the cream into her skin.

"Muggle slaves," he said as he worked, "have to pick four tonnes of rose petals to make one kilo of the oil that goes into this cream."

"Muggles," she said with a sniff and he smiled at her even as he continued to spread the ointment over her skin. She'd developed a good sense for when she'd be allowed to speak, what she could say and do without fear of punishment.

Not, of course, that she didn't sometimes deliberately incite him. A look that had been a little too challenging, eyes she'd refused to drop, well, that was why her back needed attention now. Not that she'd complained at the time, of course; not as she'd quaked in fear while he'd tied her hands above her, not as he'd stuck her, and certainly not as she'd shuddered beneath him, coming at his touch even as she'd bled into the sheets.

The staff had looked particularly horrified by that load of laundry. She'd just looked pleased with herself.

He scooped up more from the jar and rubbed it into her back.

"The Dark Lord has no qualms about using Muggles, so I'm not going to be too particular on the matter. After all, if we slaughtered them all down to the last child, well, who would pick the roses that make your skin so beautiful?" He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her. "They're cattle, my dear. Peasants. Easily enslaved by magic, helpless, hopeless, nearly worthless. And there's so many of them." He made a face. Disgusting things, Muggles. "We can work them until they die, there's always more to be had. Not like you." He turned her towards him and, picking up her dainty hand, brought her fingers to his mouth. "You are a precious resource and this hand of yours is meant for no labor more strenuous than pleasing me."

She cooed at that, his own little captive dove. His own perfect, perfect toy.

. . . . . . . . . .

He'd walked the short trek through the castle and down the road into the dilapidated village below without incident even though he'd felt eyes on his back every moment he was out there. The wizard swept into the shabby inn, paid off the innkeeper with promises that he wouldn't kill him or string up his family in the courtyard if he were to lie his arse off should the question ever arise as to his whereabouts that evening, and used he floo to attend his meeting. He was taking a risk that night, going out like that, but it was worth it.

She was wrong and it _was_ worth it.

Draco's trip took him to a small town at a nearby coast. The surroundings were old, populated mainly by worn stone buildings and just a few handfuls of witches and wizards who kept their noses clean and their heads down. He searched around, the decorative firepots lining the streets doing surprisingly little to actually light the paths, but he looked until he spotted the converted watchtower in the distance and set out.

The thought that he might actually have to come through on his end of the bargain with Granger had crossed his mind once or twice over the past months. He'd never actually intended to make good on any of it, just keep her until he was sated and call it a day. He hadn't counted on her getting under his skin, hadn't banked on the desire to have her actually getting _worse_ after he had...had never expected her to look at him with worry or concern or gratitude or anything _but_ loathing.

It was a good thing that he'd located this individual rather early in their arrangement - just in case.

Climbing a rickety set of iron stairs bolted onto the outside of an equally rickety and rundown looking building, Draco reached the top of the unremarkable looking watchtower. He peered inside to confirm this was the place, before turning the knob and letting himself in. Kicking off some dirt from the underside of his boots, he stepped past the threshold of the small box of a room.

His eyes scanned its interior, taking in the splintering wooden shelving lining the space on nearly every wall and the aged, but hardy looking workbench off in one corner of the room. Each shelf was stacked with boxes that all varied in size and shape though they seemed organized enough to still have a filing system of sorts; the bench, not so much. Littering the bench was a handful of small trinkets scattered across the surface with papers tossed around in every kind of way, appearing as though they _tried _to maintain some kind of system but failed horribly.

Draco shook his head - some things never change.

"Draco Malfoy!" Greg Goyle sprang up from his seat in the miserable little portkey office, having turned at the sound of boots scuffing along the stone. A wide, almost child-like grin spread across his features and he held out a hand to shake, the other meaty paw coming down several times on the leaner man's back in a hardy set of pats. "I haven't seen you in years, mate! What brings you in? No, never mind that, sorry, I just never thought I'd see you coming to visit my hovel!"

"They keep me busy," Draco coughed good naturedly at the heavy claps to his frame and grinned back. "Putting fires out here, rescuing damsels in distress over there."

Greg nodded knowingly and guided him in, motioning to an empty seat that was awkwardly small for either of them. "And do those damsels ever say thank you?" He laughed and winked as he turned to pull out some whiskey he'd stolen from his last trip to less dreary environs along with two, only marginally, dirty glasses.

"They do," Draco perched on the chair and flung his feet out in front of him, watching the larger man mulling about the cramped space. "In myriad and sometimes very creative ways."

"Hah!" Greg poured the golden liquid out into two glasses and handed one to his old friend. "To good times, past, present, and future!"

The two men clinked their glasses together and settled down to reminisce over deeds of years past, some of Draco's publicly acknowledged triumphs, even funny stories that Greg had collected in his years of manning this satellite office.

They were well into their cups, the warmth of the liquor buzzing through their veins, when a clock in the distanced groaned and chimed the late hour. His witch would still be up, waiting for him to return, he knew. He needed to get what he came for and return before he broke his word or drew the attention of the others.

"... and then the goat ate her pants!"

Draco laughed so hard at the goat story tears ran down his face. "How do you do it, mate, how do you run this place and maintain your sense of humor?"

Greg shrugged, smiled lopsidedly and leaned back against the bench. "I was never really meant for glory, not like you. And the work's easy. I don't have to make the things, or anything. They come up, neatly labeled for where they lead to, and I file them. When someone requisitions one I fill out the paperwork and add the spells so we can track them, pass the thing over. And there's a girl at the local pub who thinks an actual Hogwarts wizard is a good catch, and she's eager to show me what a good catch _she _is, if you get my meaning."

Draco smirked and moved easily with the nudge the other man gave him. "So nothing's logged until you do the spellwork? That's not the easiest spell in the world. I'm impressed," he leaned back, scanning over the shelves of magicked trinkets.

"Oh, I do it so often I can whip it right out," Greg said, happy to have a _Lord_ – funny to think of Draco as such – acknowledge his skill. "They'll work, of course, without the final oomph I give them, but we wouldn't know who went where."

"Good man," Draco raised his glass towards his old chum. "We all do our part."

"We do," Greg drained his glass. "Wanna see?"

'Sure," Draco said, tossing back his own dose of liquid courage and moving to follow. "I was never good at that one; maybe I can learn a thing or two."

Greg pulled out his wand and, turning behind him pulled a box off the shelf. "They're all in these boxes," he said. "Sorted by destination, all labeled. This one's supposed to take someone to headquarters. I'll tie it to myself; Merlin knows sooner or later I'll go back."

He waved his wand, a quick flick up and down and then to the left, and with a "_Scribatur tenebatur Gregorius Goyle_" cast the spell.

"Impressive," Draco drawled, and when Greg looked up, expecting to see his old friend congratulating him on his tidy charm work he instead found Draco pointing his wand, his expression stony and decidedly sober.

"What?" Greg asked, confusion in every line of his body. He wasn't afraid, this was _Draco_, stopped in to visit, to have a drink.

"Sorry mate," Draco said, smirking, and with a quick _avada kedavra_ the man dropped like a marionette severed from its strings."My witch needs your untraceable wand and I promised her a portkey as well and, well, recently I've been thinking I just might even give it to her."

He stepped over Greg's body and started to rummage through the stacks of unregistered portkeys. He couldn't take too many, didn't want this to look like an actual theft. If anyone thought someone had stolen portkeys that would be a crime that would get some attention. A splinching accident, especially by a man known to be a trifle thick, well, no one would waste time investigating _that._ But he could take this, and this, and, yes, this one also, with no one missing them. More than that, too risky.

Portkeys stolen, he turned to snag the man's wand and, before tucking it safely into his pocket cast a quick series of harmless _leviosa_ charms to ensure the man's name was purged from the record of recent spells cast. Wouldn't want the woman to ask why, exactly, this wand had Greg Goyle's magical signature in its history.

That done he used his own wand to diagonally sever the unfortunate Greg from neck to hip, obvious evidence of splinching, especially given the missing wand and lack of any obvious theft or foul play. "You shouldn't apparate drunk, Greg," Draco murmured, snatching up the small glass he'd been drinking from and pocketing it before leaving his old friend dead and bleeding on the floor to return to his job and his presumably worried witch.

. . . . . . . . . .

When he reached the meeting point - clearly not the actual headquarters because it was little more than a crumbling stone cottage - Blaise Zabini stopped and waited. Whoever he was supposed to meet would either come or not and, after years of dancing around maniacs who were, at best, amoral, he'd learned to control his anxiety most of the time. Not always, of course, as his little breakdown when he'd first gotten the lock of hair illustrated, but most of the time; he was still glad it was Marie who'd found him that day. She was safe, harmless. If Nott, or even Malfoy, had found him he would have had some rapid explanations to concoct. Sometimes fortune favored fools.

And he was, certainly, a bloody fool on a fool's errand.

He'd seen her _die_, goddammit. Hope was the most dangerous thing he could have. Hope killed. Hope slaughtered. Hope left you bleeding on pile of corpses while madmen laughed.

_And yet._

The cold had seeped into his boots and tucked itself around his toes by the time his contact arrived. Zabini recognized him, of course. Time had passed, and that time had changed him, but he could still see echoes of the schoolboy in the man before him. Only echoes, though.

Zabini had spent the years since they'd all left their schoolboy days around dangerous men, both lunatics like Nott and brutal soldiers like Malfoy and he was still impressed by the man who stood before him, measuring him. All the puppy fat was long gone, and a nasty scar ran across his face; he was hard, a hard, hard man. Hard eyes, hard muscles, hard stance. Unlike the cloying pseudo-medievalism Zabini's peers had taken to affecting, this man was dressed with an eye to practicality; his study boots and fatigues would have looked at home in any number of muggle armed groups and Zabini was fairly sure he spotted a muggle pistol. Not a weapon, he mused, that was much good in open combat with a wizard, but he started to understand how the rebels so easily picked off anyone who was foolish enough to drop his caution in these woods. A hard, ruthless man, indeed.

God, it was hard not to hope.

"Well," Zabini said, "the not-quite-chosen one. You lived."

"The boy who lived, indeed," the man quipped, no hint of humor reaching those eyes.

"Congratulations on that promotion."

"I could have done without it."

"A reasonable preference." He paused and they stared hard at one another in the stillness of that achingly cold night. "She's really alive?"

"You really thought I would send you a lock of hair from a dead woman as some kind of cruel mental game?" He sounded almost offended.

Zabini snorted, thinking about how much Nott would have reveled in such a trick. "You know who I work with."

"Fair point," the man smiled for the first time but it was fleeting. "Yes, she's alive but, Zabini, it's been a rough road. Be... _gentle_." There was another pause as they didn't quite circle around one another, didn't quite posture before the implied threat was made explicit. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

Zabini pulled his wand out and rolled it between his fingers, passing it from one hand to another, watching the other man. It was a casual reminder that he, unlike the man standing there, watching, with a confident set to his shoulders, was able to go about openly magically armed; that he was never going to be careless enough to be vulnerable to a muggle-style attack. "You've figured out a way to circumvent the Trace?"

"No," the man smiled coolly, "I'd do it Traced."

Zabini smiled back; he could learn to like this man, he could like anyone who would risk himself to protect the woman he'd come to see.

"A bold choice," he said, drawling the words out, "given it would bring Malfoy down on you," and the man shrugged.

"Me and her as well. Don't force my hand, Zabini."

Blaise Zabini regarded the other man and then said, as he slipped his wand back into its holster, "Lead on then, Neville Longbottom. Take me to her."

. . . . . . . . . .

_A/N - Thank you, as always, for reading, for reviewing, for following along with us on this strange little journey._

_Much love to our reviewers: B__ecause Banana, Artemis of the Golden Distaff, Delancey654, dracosgirl007, Rose Davis, Jenny Felton, bicorn-tana, Calimocho, Grovek26, pagyn, annaea3077, thfourteenth, punkrocksammy, CasaCan, Guest, LadiePhoenix007._

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina as well as the drabbles we each write._

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and__lechegomyeggo _

_And, of course, please share your thoughts on this chapter! _


	15. Chapter 14 - Things that are Beautiful

The night was clear and the full moon lit the world, which was good because otherwise Zabini wasn't quite sure how he would've seen so much as the hand in front of his face. He'd started to light a _lumos_ but the quick warning from Longbottom had stopped him.

If they see light from a wand, he'd said, they'll know it's not me, or that I'm not alone, and you might get shot in the head without warning.

After Longbottom had said that he'd just nodded and fallen into step next to him, as close as he could get without molesting the man; he hadn't come this far just to get shot down now. It was good, he supposed, to know these people weren't fucking around, but he didn't plan to be the unfortunate consequence of someone's overeager trigger finger, not ever and certainly not for a little light.

They reached an edge of the mountains after their short walk through the woods. It wasn't that far from their initial meeting place, but between the dark and the thoughts that rushed and scattered and coalesced again around what he would say or do when he saw her, he didn't think he'd be able to find the place again. Some strategist, he scolded himself. Well, he'd been more than a little distracted.

Neville let out a short series of whistles; if he hadn't been standing right next to the man, their sleeves brushing, he'd have assumed he'd just heard some nocturnal bird. The signal impressed him in a rather abstract 'that's good planning' way until he saw them, there, in the trees. His first instinct was to reach for his wand, but he tamped it down; he was thankful for Longbottom's earlier word of caution when all of the evergreens began to rustle and move on this frigid, windless night. One by one, dropping from the trees, he saw hard, rugged looking men and women, painted in colors that allowed them to blend into the night, into those very trees they'd been stationed in. All of them came at this man's call and every single one of them landed, weapons in hand, ready and focused on him.

Zabini took in the lot of them - three, four, seven, _ten_, too many, far too many for him to back out now if he'd been having any kind of second thoughts. Slowly, he removed his hand from anywhere that could be interpreted as 'near his wand,' just to be clear, and held them up, palms forward in a universal sign. Reluctantly, he allowed Longbottom to remove his wand from its holster and another, larger, man to pat him down in search of anything more crude on his person.

"Precautionary." Neville shrugged, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Sorry."

The dark skinned man just grunted, thinking the other was enjoying this too much, then nodded. "Let's just get on with it?"

"Right. This way, then."

Zabini watched curiously as Longbottom approached the side of the mountain. He didn't see a cave or a hut or tent or generally anything that looked like an entryway, but, before he had a chance to ask, the man walked up to a large pile of fallen rocks. He jerked away the brush and other greenery at one edge of it and it was then that Zabini realized there was an opening, a very tight looking passageway, _a path_, behind that rubble. Neville pulled an oil lantern from somewhere in the darkness and took a moment to light it before finally motioning him and a couple of the guards to follow. Looking around, out at both angry and stoic looking faces glaring at him and then back at the narrow passage, sure to be filled with spiders, he turned back to the other man and sighed. _Here we go._

Neville took the lead with complete confidence, taking them deeper into the side of the mountain with nothing but a brightly burning lantern to light their way. He wasn't afraid of the dark - just those bloody spiders lurking in it - but the weight of this darkness was suffocating and he found himself falling into a tight line with his possible allies-slash-captors. As they moved, he allowed himself the act of exploring his surroundings, as much as he could, anyway. The path was well worn, ancient even, and there were curious looking nooks, notched in rows of twos and threes, in the walls on either side of him. He couldn't help but break the silence when he realized what this all was.

"These are crypts..._vaults_," Zabini said.

"Aye… they were."

He continued looking around him, finally noticing that the air wasn't as still as it should have been. They'd been walking for a significant amount of time by then and the air was chilled but also, he noted with interest, _circulating_ through the caverns. "For the _dead_," he added pointedly. "They were never meant to hold life down here, how have you been surviving? The air?"

Longbottom seemed unsurprised at his observation; the man _was_ the resident strategist after all, it made sense that he'd notice a thing or two. "Turns out they belonged to a wizarding family. Probably the owners of the keep you're holed up in now. They added some charms to the place to keep the air flowing that have managed to persist all these years. It all moves in and out from the main entrance to the room ahead," he nodded towards the pitch black nothing in front of them, "and then back. There are other caverns and exits linking to the atrium that it passes through also, but not all of them - it seems some were additions, or attempted ones, that didn't really pan out so those just hold stagnant air and underground ponds. Still, there's enough space to get a lot done."

"Impossible! I've scoured all the notes and reports on that place. There's no mention of these, just the crypts beneath the keep proper. If the family owned or even knew about something this massive we would have found some mention of them by now, something, _anything,_ to elude to their existence."

"Aye," he said again, glancing back over his shoulder, "you would have, _did_ actually."

"What?" His brow furrowed. "Then what happened to that information? Who failed to pass that along?"

"Johnson...Carlysle...McKennaugh..._Deckard_," Neville said the last with a quirk to his lips.

Zabini's eyes widened as Longbottom listed off each of the commanders that had been in charge of the keep before each had met his unfortunate end. He met the other man's look and was given a sly, smug as hell, grin that gave him his answer - the rebellion happened.

Blaise made the rest of the trip in that deafening silence, the magnitude of the rebellion finally starting to sink in. Oh, dear fucking God, it was hard not to hope that these people might have it together. Might _finally_ be a group that… and if they had her…. He smothered his thoughts. Don't dwell on hope, lesson number one. Just deal with what's in front of you.

In that tradition, and doing his best to ignore the two men behind him and the crossbows they had pointed at his back, Zabini followed the Neville Longbottom and his lantern through the twisting, narrow corridor. The man slowed as the hall became impossibly smaller until he stopped before an archway where a curtain made of individual strands of wrought iron chains were hung, hammered into the stone, with varying sizes of bells all attached to the many links. The man gave him one last look – half proud grin, half worried frown - and tugged the chain curtain aside, the alarm bells jingling loudly and causing dozens of bodies - some very clearly armed - to turn their way.

The Italian's eyes grew huge at the converted space. Supplies – bedrolls, stockpots, lanterns – were neatly stacked around the edges of the room and in the center, where one might've expected to see a statue commemorating a god or goddess or some high ranking noble, there were instead rows of various benches, most filled with people, witches and wizards of all ages, making themselves busy even now doing things with both rustic and modern looking Muggle weaponry.

"Welcome," the man said holding the curtain to one side and motioning for him to enter, "to the rebellion, Blaise Zabini."

As Blaise stood there, shocked into non-responsive silence by the scope of what he saw in front of him, Longbottom laughed.

"You thought we were a half-dozen desperate fools hiding in tents?"

Blaise shook his head and found his voice. "Most groups are. I've found scared housewives brewing illegal contraceptives, I've found teenagers who throw rocks, I've found groups of those half-dozen fools you mention, wielding Traced wands that get them captured within days of starting something. In years of searching I've never found anything remotely organized or with any hope of success. This, this is… this is _beautiful _Longbottom. How have you…?"

The scarred man nodded, a quick acknowledgment of what he'd accomplished, what the rebellion had managed to accomplish. And to think Malfoy had dismissed this group as, what had he called them, 'peasants playing duck and run?' He couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried.

Zabini idly wondered who the mole was, not the low level drudges, but who passed this group their useful information. It certainly wasn't Granger, he thought with a cold frown, for all these people kept her in contraceptives. She was too busy playing house with Malfoy. Fuck, he needed to find a way to warn Longbottom not to trust her.

"Before we get into the details of our little group," Longbottom started, a more serious note entering his words, "I think I have something you want." He took off across the room, pausing only once to make sure he was following, then headed down one of the side corridors to lead Zabini towards one of the working antechambers. The crossbow toting guards stayed behind leaving Blaise to assume there was only one way out, back through the main room.

Then they were there, in a small room with a desk, a curtain cordoning off the back, a table with a water pitcher. It was simple, basic, and a quaint escape from the harsh and blatant signs of war they'd left in the main chamber.

"He's here," Longbottom said clearly with enough volume to carry but still a notable air of softness.

Zabini tensed as the curtain moved and she nervously emerged from around the side of the hanging fabric. He stood, shakily, taking all of her in. The man had told him, _teased_ him with her presence to get him there, but it wasn't until she was standing there – _really _standing there – on the other side of the room in plain view, that it became real.

She'd tied her red hair back into a neat braid, her eyes were haunted, and there was a brutal scar across her throat. She put her hands over it self-consciously when she saw him looking, as he cataloged all the ways she'd changed, all the ways she was the same.

All his snark, all his sarcasm, his brutality, any semblance of the hardened man he'd become over all this time melted away the moment his angel came into view. Longbottom hadn't lied to him, he'd come through, and she was really there, standing, looking, watching.

She was REALLY there. She was- "Alive," he whispered in wonder, closing the gap between them in a scant few steps, "you're _alive_."

"I'm ugly," she blurted, not at all the first words she'd wanted to say to him after this long. She'd dreamed of the time when she would be able to see him again, not from afar, but here, _like this_, and none of them included him seeing her as rough and worn looking as she knew she was.

Neville turned his head in shock at the sound of her voice, but Zabini, who, of course, had no idea she hadn't consciously spoken in years, was just pulling her hands away from her neck, dropping a line of kisses along the scar.

"You're beautiful," he corrected her, crushing her in his arms, holding her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, because she _was_. "I killed the woman who did this to you-I-I ripped her to pieces," he added before he finally broke down and began to sob, burying his face in that gorgeous red hair, breathing her in. "If I'd known – _fucking Christ_– if I'd fucking KNOWN you were alive I would have..."

"I know," her voice was still so quiet, so unsure, even as she held him, as she soothed him and he came apart in her arms.

"How is she alive," he turned to Neville suddenly, tears still in his eyes and his voice laced with near accusation. "I saw her die." His grip tightened on the witch as though speaking such a thing aloud would bring it into existence; he glared over top her head at the thought, he'd die himself before such a thing would truly come to pass. "I saw that woman slit her throat."

Neville coughed slightly, looked away and said, "You saved her, actually. I won't lie, it was a... near thing, but whatever combination of spells you were launching at her staunched the blood flow, started healing the... the cut." He grimaced uncomfortably, remembering how bad it was, how bad it had been. "We got her out that night. No one on... your side... was checking the bodies but we did; we checked all of them. You saved a lot of people, Zabini."

"It's not my side," the man said, sharply, automatically, focusing back on his witch, cradling her face in his hands, smiling down at her like Longbottom didn't even exist in the same room with them; his chilled tone was a stark contrast to the way he stood there, adoring her with nothing but love in his eyes.

Ginny was smiling too – fuck, Neville hadn't seen her smile since...a long time, it'd been a very, _very _long time. She was finally coming out of the shock of actually being in the same room, the same space, with this man she'd screamed for every night of every month of all the years since he'd been swept into Voldemort's army. She was running her hands over his face, over the scars he'd also earned, and he took every chance to dot kisses to her fingers whenever they neared his lips.

Zabini caught her left hand, realizing that she'd still had her ring, had managed to hang on to it still in the middle of all the chaos, and that she was wearing it. He trailed his mouth over her knuckles and held the hand in both of his, twiddled the band some and saw, even on her pale skin, the even paler line where it'd been resting all this time. The shy look she gave him said all he'd needed to know; she'd not taken it off, not after she'd been saved, not ever again.

His breath shuddered out and he kissed her again, mumbling promises against her that had the woman smiling and crying, all at once. Her hands gripped at his back, bunching the fabric of his coat in her small fists and she practically glowed in his arms.

"Has been your side," Neville said quietly after a while, watching the man shelter Ginny along the length of his body and murmur in broken Italian against her hair. "Doesn't have to be."

"Isn't." Zabini looked up again and shook his head. "Never has been."

"You work for Malfoy," but it was more of a question than a statement.

"I _report_ to Malfoy," Zabini corrected. "I work for myself." He adjusted her in his arms, tucked her against his neck, and pressed another kiss to the top of her head, adding without bothering to look at him, "I work for her. I've _always _worked for her."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat on the floor looking out the window, through the balcony that graced the "King's Suite" to the world outside. She hadn't expected to end up liking Malfoy. She hadn't expected to end up actually feeling some sympathy for the bastard. Compared to him she was free; no one depended on her. No one's life but her own hung on whether she behaved herself.

Freedom could be a bloody lonely thing.

Why did I do it, she wondered. Years of fighting, from the time I was eleven years old, just a child in a world that despised me, and for what? To end up here, all my friends dead, locked in a room protected by a man who hated me and wanted me and resented me all our lives. All those sacrifices for nothing. My life now is better than it's been in years and I'm what, a whore? A mistress? She rubbed her hands across her face. It was snowing outside, a soft flurry of white that covered everything, hid everything away from view which made the way she was unpacking her own feelings and looking at them ever so slightly ironic. If I'm going to be honest, she admitted, let's be really honest. Let's tally up the whole of my wasted life and see what the final score is.

It sure looked like "Hermione Granger: 0".

"Brightest witch of my age," she murmured to herself, "and I ended up a mudblood whore anyway."

She was shocked to realize, when she really looked at her past, how much she resented the Order of the Phoenix. How much she bloody well resented the rebellion. How fucking furious she was with them, if she wanted to dive deep into all those repressed emotions. They'd used her. Used all of them. And, worse, they'd failed.

What kind of fucking morons put the whole of their battle strategy on the shoulders of a teenaged boy? Oh, there was a _prophecy_. Oh, that made it all better then. Let's just send the half-trained child up against a man who's spent his whole life studying dark magic and who isn't burdened with a conscience. That's sure to go really well. Because, you know, _prophecy_.

That thing, she thought to herself, that thing where I ran naked into the woods, my hair still dripping from a shower, clutching a towel in one hand and a wand I couldn't use in the other? That was so great, so totally fucking awesome. That I'm alive at all is because of luck, because of my own wits, because of other, desperate children. Not because of some half-baked prophecy. Not because of the vaunted Order. Not because the bloody-be-damned rebellion. And when I got here, made it to the stronghold of the fucking rebellion, what do I get? A job hauling slop for the pigs. I guess, she thought resentfully, that's all they thought I was good for. Even Malfoy gives me more credit than that.

Malfoy was, well, he was pretty great, actually. She hated even thinking that, especially given how awful he'd been her whole life, how awful he'd been when he discovered it was her. But now…now he was… he was pretty great. Not just the sex, which was the best drug she'd ever found, even better than magic which was saying something. He was… weirdly thoughtful. He'd actually combed through the library and brought her some novels that weren't totally lurid trash. He'd taken to asking her things, little things about how the village ran, or how the castle worked, and listening to her answers. He actually respected her opinion, took her counsel, which was a hell of a lot more than she could say for the fucking Order.

And he was doing things. She did leave the room, some days. Not often – avoiding Nott was one of the main guiding principles of her life – but sometimes she did and when she did she heard things. Malfoy had cleaned up the village. The sewage issues? Gone. The dysentery? Treated. The burned out houses had been torn down, the rat issue was going away. He'd had a public pump installed so people whose pipes were broken beyond all repair could get clean water. He was… he was good at this. He was, of all things, a dedicated steward. He took care of things.

He, she admitted, took care of her.

It had been a long time since anyone had taken care of her. It had been a long time since she'd felt she could relax and know she could trust someone – anyone – to keep her safe in this world. He might be an evil overlord, she thought with a smile creeping onto her face, but he was her evil overlord, and maybe not even that evil. Not if he were taking care of things, making the lives of the ordinary people better. God, was it possible that under that armour of indifferent cruelty, the armour he wore to make sure he kept his mother safe, there was actually a good man?

Could you hate a man who worked to keep his mother safe?

She wondered, as she sat there, smiling about fucking Draco Malfoy of all people, watching the snow fall, when she'd stopped hating him. When he'd sat with her after Nott terrorized her? When he gave her back a little magic? When he trusted her with his own wand? When had she started liking him? When had she started trusting him?

She'd walked him to her meeting point, betrayed her own side. Sure, she didn't have that much to betray, her, once the brightest witch of her age and now just the hauler of pig slops, but, what little there was to betray, she'd betrayed. She'd given him… everything. Everything she had left to give. You might as well fucking admit it, Hermione Granger, she thought to herself. You went and fell for him. You fell for the evil little cockroach and now you're fretting about whether he likes you back, as if you were a fifteen-year-old girl who wants a date to the dance.

And the shitty thing, she thought, returning to staring glumly out the window, is that this is as good as it gets. Protected by Draco Malfoy, until he's bored. And now, when he casts you aside, which you know he inevitably will because _mudblood_, you won't just be in danger again, you'll be heartbroken too. Isn't life grand?

. . . . . . . . . .

This day was taking forever. Maybe it was the creeping depression, the sense that falling for Draco Malfoy, a man who would never think of her as anything other than his obsession, was a damn fool thing to do. Whatever it was, she felt more trapped than usual, waiting for him to return.

She'd left the window; staring out at the world she couldn't have had gotten too dreary, and now Hermione was sprawled on her belly on the bed, another one of the slightly less horrid novels open and her eyes scanning the words but not really paying attention to the contents. Dinner was over and she knew, intellectually, that Draco was just at another meeting and soon he would return and they could spend the rest of the evening in their normal routine, but she was growing anxious.

She'd been anxious when he left ever since he'd pulled that 'I'm going out in the middle of the night and won't tell you why' stunt.

He'd returned, just as he'd said he would that night, shortly before dawn. No one else had been up yet, not even the staff, and he'd slipped in silently. He'd probably only been gone a few hours but she'd sat there and waited for him, terrified, and it had felt like ages. He'd been smug, the bastard, and that, combined with the release of all the fear she'd been holding on to, made her lay into him even more angrily. _That _fight, and the subsequent shag, had been more emotionally charged than any of their other blowouts, and reconciliations, to date.

After shouting her throat raw, she'd broken down and wept like a sodding child. Much to her surprise, he'd been tender – gentle, even - with her though she could still see the anger in his eyes. Draco Malfoy did not like to be yelled at. "Don't leave me like that again," she'd begged, skin splotchy and red from all the weeping and he'd surprised her again by nodding, by whispering promises that he wouldn't as he made love to her until sunrise, until he'd left to go off and do the evil things she pretended he didn't.

She'd scared herself with the realization she was genuinely terrified he wouldn't return, and not just because she very well might have wasted away in this cage without him. She'd scared herself with the realization she _cared_.

Not that she'd told him that, she could barely tell herself that. Hell, until her bout of self-examination this morning she'd hid behind the comforting lie that she was used to him, he was part of the routine, that he kept her safe. He'd thrown a bit of a snag in all her oh-so-comforting lies when he'd gone waltzing off to what very well could have been his demise, making her start to face the truth about how she felt about the wretched man.

He should be back soon. His meetings, which had increased in frequency, were never particularly long. He should be back, he should be back with her. Her fingers itched to feel magic thrumming through them; she'd stated to crave doing even the tiny spells he allowed her. He should be back, he should be handing her his wand so she could be a witch again for just a little while.

The latch to the door jiggled and she was quickly pulled from her thoughts, shooting upright from her spot. She tried not to appear too eager, but when she saw his face appear from around the wood with that ever present scowl in place, she couldn't help the grin that appeared.

When he finally looked up to see her, smiling at his unfortunate disposition, he grunted, tossed his things aside, closed, locked, and warded the door. "It's rude to take pleasure in other people's misery, Granger." She chuckled and it was a pleasant sound that eased some of the tension in his shoulders already. He sheathed his wand at his side and hovered near his desk.

That was _not_ part of their routine; he was supposed to _give her the wand_. "It wasn't my intention," she said simply, eyes shifting between his holster and where he was staring hard at one of his locked desk drawers. She hesitated with her question, "Was it a... bad meeting?"

"Are they ever good?" Draco snorted, shrugged, and barely looked over at her, obviously still thinking about something else entirely. "No, it was fine."

Her anxiety was growing steadily and she was trying her best not to be obvious about it. Ever since that first time... that day he'd burst in here and accused her of setting him up, he'd not made any move to take away the magic again. He would come back to her, ward them in, and he would lose himself in her. He would hand over the wand, sometimes for a while and others, not so long, but he'd never just sheathe it and stand there awkwardly as he was now. Did she... did she do something else? She couldn't have! Just like all the other days, she'd been locked away, staying out of trouble, trying not to lose her mind.

"Draco?" His head finally snapped up at his name and he looked surprised to see her there. Her lips twitched downwards and she scooted to one side of where she sat and patted the mattress, watching him grimace and hesitate when she did so - that wasn't right, that wasn't like him at all. "Are you coming to bed?"

"No. Not yet." His eyes darted away, to the desk again, and her heart jumped into her throat then plummeted into her stomach in smooth succession. Was he going to finally get rid of her? Why else would he be so hesitant? There was something he was keeping from her and secrets were never safe. Draco turned his back on her, drawing his wand again before he spoke. "I can't give you freedom and I can't announce you to the world..."

She swallowed nervously, watching the line of his back tense, watched his wand warily and tried to compile a list of ways she might be able to escape if he chose to dispose of her right there and then. Her thoughts raced and sped through a thousand different scenarios, but when all he did with it was mumble an unlocking charm at the desk and holster it once again, she blinked at him in confusion.

He was talking again, his voice had gotten a bit softer and he was saying something about what he'd retrieved the other night on his errand, but his words were failing him and he'd started making a series of odd and awkward sounding noises to bridge the gap between them. If they'd been eleven again, she would swear she'd see him shuffle and scuff the ground. When he turned to face her, he was holding, what appeared to be, a small parcel wrapped in a fancy looking silk cloth.

She blinked again when he approached her with it, holding it between them. "What..." she started, glancing up to his face and barely contained her shock at seeing him looking almost nervous. It wasn't obvious, it wouldn't be to anyone else, but just as he'd come to know her so intimately, she had picked up a few things as well. There was just enough hesitation, just enough of a twitch at the corner of his eye, his mouth, for her to realize he _was_ nervous and waiting for some kind of reaction from her_._ She must have missed it somewhere in his failed mumbles. "Is this for me?"

"Yes," he said and passed it over, nearly thrusting it at her, before taking a seat next to her. Draco studied her profile, reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear and removed his hands again, clasped them in his lap while he waited. "Open it."

Hermione ran her fingers over the fabric; even the small swatch of it was luxurious and she wondered briefly where he'd gotten such a thing. "O-okay."

This whole thing was rather odd. A gift from Malfoy - from _Draco. _This presentation wasn't like the other items he'd provided for her. The gowns, the negligees, the books, they were all delivered without fanfare and certainly without a quaint little box wrapped in silks. Without further ado - because who was she kidding, her curiosity was _raging_ at this point - she unwrapped the gift and pulled the lid away.

It took a moment for her to realize what she was seeing, but the _second _that she did her eyes grew large. She felt a flush of heat wash through her entire body and her hand trembled as she reached inside, fingers hovering over it as though if she were to touch it, this magnificent dream would shatter.

"This- is this... is this what I think it is?"

"Fir… dragon heartstring... unTraceable..." Draco didn't smile, didn't smirk, he just kept watching her. He ran a hand over her curls again and it brought her attention back to him, those glamoured eyes snapping his way. He leaned in, tugging her closer and turning them both in the direction of the mirror in the corner. Pressing kisses over her cheek, he loosened the laces of her bodice in something that much more closely resembled their routine. "_Yours._"

At that, she closed her hand around the wand, pulled it free from the velvety cushion it'd been placed upon and held it up to the light. She wasn't familiar with the wood but the core was the same as hers; she could make this work, she could convince this wand to accept her. "Mine?" she asked shakily, unable to hide her excitement.

He did grin then. Sliding a hand down her arm, he nudged at her elbow to help aim it at the mirror, urging her to summon it. "_All _yours," he whispered in her ear, then, "now let me see you... I want to see you, Hermione."

Her eyelashes fluttered at the familiar words, the precursor to the highlight of every evening. She'd always removed the glamour in front of the glass so they both could watch and after, she'd use his wand much like a toy, for practice however she was allowed. She'd thought about more than that in the beginning of course, but even if she'd tried, the borrowed thing wouldn't strike against its master; not so easily anyway, not its ever stubborn combination of wood and core so set on its allegiance to the blonde. But this one...

Her grip tightened on the wood and she embraced the feel of the magic running through her blood, humming much more loudly with this focus in her hand pulling it to the surface. Hermione pulled away from his kisses, earning a soft growl from her lover, and she moved to face him head on. Straddling his lap, she rested a hand on his chest and pressed gently until he allowed a small gap between them. She whispered the _finite_ and let the glamour fall away.

"I could curse you with this." The words were spoken softly, her wand point now resting over his chest much the same way as their first time, their positions reversed; even as she said it, she knew the truth and, by the way his hands slid confidently under her skirts, beginning those sweet touches that always sent her soaring, he did as well.

"Will you?" he asked, unafraid and already lost in those dark, glittering eyes.

He'd debated, been debating, giving her the wand since he'd successfully procured it days ago. It wasn't a decision he'd made lightly, even after going through the efforts to obtain it, he'd still thought about the potential consequences of arming his witch. With every doubt that had surfaced, he'd remembered that look on her face as she tried to keep him safe from the dangers lurking beyond the walls. With the tip of her new wand pressed to his chest and her looking as though she were ready to devour him in ways that gave him chills, he couldn't find fault in his decision. His witch was strong... _powerful_... she just needed to remember; and heavens above, did she look bloody _amazing_ when she remembered.

She licked her lips and slid a hand into his hair, moving her wand from his chest to lean closer. "No," she admitted quietly, shutting her eyes against the sting of tears. "Thank you, Draco… just - _thank you._"

He kissed her, kissed that quiver of her lip away until she was smiling again, laughing at his playful pecks and nips. She giggled and turned all the flames in the room blue just because she could and when she tired of that she turned to him again. She tangled her hands in his hair, tugged him to her, down to the bed, and took to banishing different items of his clothing until he was bare and grinning and pressing her into the sheets.

Only when they were both exposed to one another again did she release the wand, tucked it under her pillow, and cupped his face. "Thank you," she said again, voice thick with emotion and eyes glossed over with moisture.

Draco kissed her softly and savored her, reveling in her nearness in a way he seldom allowed himself to do. "Anything..._anything _for my witch," he murmured so quietly she almost didn't hear.

As he took her to the sheets, made her arch in ecstasy all throughout the night, before everything was drowned out by her keening cries of pleasure, she thought that maybe - just maybe – falling for him wasn't the worst thing she could have done. Maybe this could work.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theodore Nott propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at his beauty, lightly asleep in the bed next to him. He rarely let his little toys sleep in the bed, not since one of them had decided she'd slit his throat in his sleep and had thus moved herself from "toy" to "independent research project."

It was amazing how long you could keep a person alive if you were careful and deliberate.

This one, though, she was an exception in so many ways and so there she lay in his bed, still wearing the white silk negligee he'd dressed her up in earlier. The simple purity of the costume had amused him earlier and aesthetically pleased him now. Her only flaw, really, he mused, was that she wasn't afraid of him any longer, certainly not with the delightful groin-tightening fear that poured off Malfoy's Miss Evans. Still, one couldn't have quite everything, he supposed, and to have a partner who trusted him, who actually responded to him the way this one did, well, that was worth a few compromises. Not aesthetic compromises, of course, but he could live with just the muted fear he still evoked in his treasure.

He leaned down to brush his lips over her cheek and she groggily turned towards him and tried to pull herself up to meet his lips with her own. The leash, still tying her to the headboard, caught her and, after watching her strain against her collar for a few moments he chuckled and released her, let her press herself against him as he slid his hands up her back to support her head as he thrust his tongue into her warm mouth, tasted her, felt her.

When he let her go, she whimpered slightly but didn't protest, just settled back and looked down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap in front of her. "I have something for you," he murmured, and pulled out a box he'd ordered from down south. "Look up, sweetheart."

When she did he handed her the small package, neatly wrapped with plain paper and tied with butcher's twine. He nodded at her questioning look and, thus encouraged, she pulled the string away from the box and with small, careful movements took the paper off. When she lifted the lid she glanced up at him in wonder and he took the necklace out and said, "Turn around." When he fastened the chain about her neck and turned her back towards him he was pleased to see that he had judged the length of the pendant correctly and the emerald hung where he'd wanted it. She had her hands over it, stroking the chain.

"How?" she asked, her voice very quiet and tentative.

"I am quite well paid for what I do, pet," he drawled, admiring her. "I can easily afford to give you presents." He nudged her up. "Go, look at it in the mirror. See how beautiful you look."

She slipped out of the bed and he watched her, her golden hair catching the firelight as she padded across the floor to stare at herself in the reflective glass. He could see her preen as she looked at herself, as she realized, he supposed, the stone was quite as large as she'd thought; he didn't care for tiny little stones. They looked cheap and Theodore Nott would never buy cheap - or vulgar - jewelry. He smiled indulgently as she began to spin around the room, stopping to see the green sparkle as it reflected back at her. He joined her, after a few moments, pulling her into his arms and beginning to turn her around the room.

"You don't dance," he observed.

She stopped, her eyes cast down again. "I never had a chance to learn, sir," she whispered, with just a hint of that fear he so liked, fear that she'd displeased him.

"No matter," he stroked her hair and considered her. "Are you pureblood? I've never asked."

"I... I don't understand sir," she stammered, still looking down.

"Any Muggle-born grandparents hiding in the family tree? Great-grandparents, maybe?"

She looked up and he was astonished to see she actually looked offended. "That's disgusting," she gasped. "How can you ask that? What kind of..." She seemed to remember who she was, whom she was speaking to, and closed her mouth with a sudden, sharp movement and looked down again. "No, sir," she said, clearly struggling for an appropriately respectful tone.

Theodore Nott found himself utterly charmed and amused that he'd finally disgusted his little pet. He'd made her beg for every stroke he'd landed on her earlier; he'd tied her to the bed and forced her to be fully complicit in her own abuse. She had been, too, had begged him for every blow, had pleaded wantonly and helplessly for more when he'd teased her with the threat that he was too tired to continue, and then had thanked him as tears ran down her cheeks, as she shook under even the lightest touch of his hand, anticipating slaps that didn't always come.

When he'd finally thrown her, face down, onto his bed, bruised and welted, she'd been as wet as he was hard and he'd laughed, a low hoarse sound. He'd entered her, pounded into her with the desperation of an artless boy, robbed of his own legendary control by the way she shook beneath him, by the way she caught fire at his brutality.

But that, that didn't disgust her.

No, she was perfectly happy - ecstatic in the truest sense of the word - to be hurt, but the vague suggestion that she might maybe perhaps have Muggle ancestry upset her. It was too bad he couldn't share that little story with the Dark Lord or Bellatrix; they'd both appreciate it, but, unfortunately, either of them might decide to take his little prize for themselves and he couldn't let that happen. This one, this one was his alone and he had no intention of sharing her.

All he said was, "Well, if you can't dance, I should teach you." He placed his hands on her and, with a gentle patience that would have astonished either of his co-workers, he spent the next hour teaching his pureblooded pet to dance a waltz, her emerald pendant sparkling as they turned in perfect accord across the floor of his room.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Well, here we are again. I do hope the Blaise/Ginny reunion was all you'd hoped for, and that the scope of the rebellion was a pleasant revelation, plus presents all around. _

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina, plus the drabbles we both do. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and lechegomyeggo _

_Thank you to all our readers and reviewers. You know we love you with a love that is more than a love. Most especially: janjan2009, Jenny Felton, MorningSnow03, ladymagma1100, Grovek26, Rose Davis, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, lakelady8425, Delancey654, FaeBreeze, kagomesdance, Artemis of the Golden Distaff, TheFantabulousPotterHead, S Wright, Honoria Granger, Calimocho, LadiePhoenix007, Artemisgodess._


	16. Chapter 15 - Offers of Help

Blaise finished moving the last privacy screen into place in the narrow pathway that separated them from the main chamber. He went about methodically lighting the candles scattered on the desk and along the nooks in the walls, leaving the room bathed in a soft, low light; it all would have been quicker and easier if he'd had his wand back from Longbottom, but he was still keeping it for the time being. It was no matter in any case - she was worth all the time and effort it required.

"You can't stay all night," the witch said softly, reasonably, while watching him padding quietly around the room, "if you're not there by morning..."

"I'll be back by then," he interrupted her quietly and finished lighting the last of the candles. Zabini took a second to survey his work, pleased with the result, and made his way over to where she sat on the worn mattress.

Ginny fidgeted when he neared, hand going to her throat reflexively, as if covering it would make the angry, puckered scar disappear.

Blaise caught her wrist and moved it away, coming to kneel before her. He moved to take both of her hands in his and kissed the back of her knuckles before letting them rest between them, between her knees. "Stop," he chided gently, "you don't need to hide yourself from me."

"But I'm," she started, trailing off, eyes downcast and somehow ashamed.

"Amazing_,"_ he said, "wonderful, magnificent, stunning, Ginny, you are _beautiful_." Blaise reached up to brush some stray locks away from her face, his chest clenching at the way she flinched when he revealed more of her skin to him in that way. "Every night I dreamed of you. Every day, every bloody waking moment that I didn't have to spend concentrating on my cover and my survival, I thought of _you_. I thought - I... remembered," he choked, shaking away those thoughts, "_everything_... I dreamed about saving you. Every minute that I could spare, my thoughts have been on _you_. Instead of that last moment, seeing you there, I've dreamt of this, of being able to hold you again and touch you and - _fuck_, Gin, just to _see_ you, alive and smiling at me -." And she did, then, and his heart lightened. " - All that I've had of you were memories, not even a photo, and those get fuzzy with time... they've faded no matter how hard I've tried to hold onto them."

The man looked haunted for a moment but chased that away too and swallowed thickly, guiding her arms around his neck. He cupped her cheek making sure she was looking at him with those bright eyes that he absolutely couldn't get enough of and smiled. The words came out strained, his voice tight with emotion, "Seeing you here, like this, gods above, you are _**the **_single most beautiful thing in this world that these sinner's eyes have ever gazed at. I've walked through this hell without you, through literal flames more than once to save people on your side, hoping to find something like this - this operation that Longbottom has managed to hold together – and I've done it in your name, to honor your memory, to try and keep alive what you'd stood for - _stand for_; you were the _only_ thing that's kept me from becoming the wretched man that this world would have me be. I've lived only for you, my flower, so believe me when I say that you _are_ beautiful. No scar, no superficial blemish can ever, _ever_ change that."

Ginny flushed and turned her head, hiccupped a soft sob. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, all of which he brushed away with his thumbs and she leaned into his touch letting out a shaky breath.

He pressed a half dozen light kisses over her closed eyes and wet eyelashes, pressing a final sweet one to the tip of her nose before resting his forehead to hers. "Don't cry angel," he murmured and sighed when her nails scraped fondly along his scalp.

"You're such a sap," she whispered, eyes still glistening, and she playfully smacked him. Running her hands down his chest, she shyly snuck her fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt, glancing at him from beneath her lashes to see if it was _"okay"_.

He smiled reassuringly, abdomen twitching under her tickling, fluttering touches - Merlin, it had been forever since he'd felt such a touch - even as he followed her lead and reached shaking hands to begin the slow unfastening of her blouse buttons. "You love it."

"I love _you_," Ginny corrected seriously. And then suddenly, she lunged forward and stole his breath in a kiss that earned her a desperate noise - something caught between a moan and a groan and a growl - from her wizard. Coming away reluctantly for air, she whispered with moisture threatening to fall again, "I've missed you... Blaise, I've missed you _so much._" The tears did come then and she held his face between her hands, tracing over his features like she'd never seen him before, or would never see him again as the words, the conversation she'd wanted to have with him before started tumbling out in a jumbled mess, "Neville tried to find you when he realized it was you -when he found what you were doing - he tried to find you so much sooner -"

The Italian shook his head, silencing her with a finger to her lips. "_Shhhshshh_... don't cry, love, don't worry," he murmured between kisses that hushed her stuttering breaths. "I live for your smiles, not your tears and I'm here now. I'm never going to let anyone take you from me again..."

"_Sap_," she said again after a while, more calmly and against his mouth, smiling at his enthusiastic nod.

"I love you," he repeated, and that smile grew so he continued, undeterred, slanting his mouth over hers, a kiss she returned with frenzied abandon. He took those kisses and savored them but turned those frantic pecks and nibbles to a slow, leisurely exploration of her mouth, her lips, her neck that had her sighing in his arms.

She tugged him further onto the mattress, growling with frustration when he didn't immediately follow her, when she didn't feel his weight – the weight she'd missed for so many years – pressing her down, though she made a different growl, one of frank appreciation, when he pulled his shirt off and tossed it away. He was broader than she'd left him but still just as toned. She reached her hand out to confirm that this was a very real body in front of her again after a near eternity of _not._

He drew in a sharp breath at the touch and climbed over her, hovering awkwardly above her as he struggled again with her buttons. She was running those pale hands over every exposed bit of skin she could reach and every touch was like fire and he was going to lose his mind and he finally just swore and ripped the shirt open, sending the last stubborn buttons into hiding in the corners of the chamber.

She laughed, and that was heaven, but so was her skin, finally revealed to him, creamy and lightly freckled. What did I do to deserve this, Blaise wondered as he looked down at the creature spread beneath him. There is no way, he thought, I have ever been so good a man as to have earned this woman's love.

He was going to take it anyway, and be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

His attention was snapped back to the present when she tugged at his belt, then his waistband, her hand brushing over the prominent bulge in his trousers and he hissed and shivered at even that light brush before snatching her wrists away and choking out, "Ginny, love, no…"

She flushed and tried to pull away, her embarrassment evident; she was clearly thinking she'd somehow interpreted all the wrong things. Blaise refused to release her and instead leaned in to kiss her again and when she turned her head stubbornly he pressed his forehead to her temple and just kissed her cheek instead.

"Sweet flower," he said in a strained, apologetic whisper, his accent becoming heavier with his fear he'd hurt her. "I have _very intentionally_ kept my bed cold in your absence." He pulled away to look at her face and hid his smile at her confusion. "It's been _years_, Ginny. If I couldn't have you I... I haven't… not since we…" He paused and finally said, embarrassed himself. "I might be a little overeager and I don't want to disappoint you and if you touch me I might…"

"Oh." She looked at him, then, again "OH!" She realized, suddenly, that _Master Zabini_ was a catch, that women probably threw themselves at him all the time. That he'd… he'd. "Oh Blaise," she whispered, flattered, touched, awed, even, that he'd rejected all of them.

"Yes," he said, his nerves easing at the adoring look she was fixing on him now. "So… you'll have to forgive me."

She laughed, then, and instead of something mocking it was a loving sound that warmed him through to his toes. She tugged him closer, wrapped her legs around him to grind more determinedly than before and buried her face against his neck to inhale the earthy scent that was so uniquely his. He felt her moving, leading the way in disrobing them both, and when he was finally pressed against her, skin to skin, when she whispered in her shaky Italian _make love to me_, his earlier caution fled and he did as she asked.

...

The couple lay together redressed in their rumpled clothing on the tattered, dingy, lumpy mattress; Ginny had tucked herself neatly into Blaise's arms with her back flush against his chest listening to his heartbeat. Meanwhile, he ignored the spring jabbing into his hip in favor alternating the peppering of kisses to her temple and the nuzzling of her neck.

Ginny stared at their linked hands, admiring again after such a long time how rich his dark skin was, even in the dying candle light, even after all these years. He's prettier than I ever was, she mused good naturedly. She tugged his other arm tight around her waist even as she said, "You have to leave soon."

"I don't want to," his reply was immediate and somewhat petulant, his grip tightened.

"You have to," she sighed and turned in his arms to look at him. "I'm safe here," she reassured him, fingers brushing across his furrowed brow, and she gave him a very Slytherin smirk, "And besides, the sooner you head back to that farce, the sooner you can come back to me."

He frowned. "I don't want to leave you."

"Blaise Amauri Zabini," Ginny huffed in a marvelous impression of her mother and waggled a stern finger at him awkwardly, "you need to go before they all notice you're gone. You're a good liar, but I think even you will be hard pressed to explain away that shite eating smile you're sporting after a long night away from your post."

He snorted at her attempt at humour and hugged her to him, breathing in the scent of them mingled and thinking that this was what heaven felt like. Nodding finally, he pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. "Fine. But only because my flower demands it."

She rolled her eyes but grinned in a way that was so much like herself before _everything_ and tugged him upright from their bed, urging him to follow her back for an escort to the castle.

The couple didn't make it very far before they came upon a near horde of rebels standing and hovering about close to the tunnel of the barely private chamber they'd emerged from. Reflexively, Blaise made to stand before his fiancée, cursing when his hand came upon an empty holster and he analyzed the crowd. Almost immediately, he found the form of Neville working to settle some very decidedly _unsettled_ individuals in a cool and softspoken manner, though they all stirred again the second that he came into view.

Longbottom hastily stepped forward, shooting both him and Ginny a privately apologetic look and he sighed inwardly. _ Of course it wouldn't be that easy_. With a bit of quiet, swift conversation between the three of them, Zabini followed the scarred leader for what was sure to be the rest of an already long night.

"What do you have for us?"

The voice came from across the room and Zabini didn't bother to look up, just continued to burrow his face into the neck and shoulder of the witch sitting on his lap. "You've got the girl," the stranger continued. "What do we get in return?"

He narrowed his eyes in the direction of whoever would refer to his fiancée so flippantly but rolled an idea around in his head, the air in the room seeming to get heavier in anticipation of his offer. He'd thought about it before, he knew he would need to come with something, some kind of bargaining chip if he were to be trusted here. Between thinking of the solid, warm witch in his arms nearly nonstop as of late, he hadn't come up with much, but what he _had_…

"How about," Zabini said, very _very_ quietly, tightening his hold on Ginny, "I take the Trace off your wands. Would that be a contribution to the cause you'd consider of significant value?"

The room hadn't been loud before. There'd been the low murmurs of people talking to one another as they cleaned weapons, the clank of metal settled down against stone. Now, however, it was totally silent as every face turned to look at him.

"That's not possible," Neville said, equally quietly but Zabini, finally looking up from Ginny, shook his head.

"Merely very difficult."

"How?"

Zabini sighed. "Do you know how good I am, Longbottom?"

The leader of the resistance frowned at him and said, "Based on the spellwork you did at the Battle of Hogwarts I'd guess you are exceptional. Nevertheless – "

Zabini cut him off. "I was seventeen and any research I'd done above and beyond the cookie-cutter work they taught us in class had been something I did out of little more than idle curiosity, as a lark, if you will." He looked around the room, at all the hard faces staring at him. "I've had a number of years since then to continue to get better, and incentive far more compelling than being cleverer than another innocent classmate."

"I've never heard tell you were anything special." It was another man he didn't know and he snorted.

"Standing out in the Dark Lord's army might be a damn good way to get promoted but it also tends to get you noticed and _noticed_ was exactly what I didn't want to be." He looked back at Neville. "How much do you know about esoteric magical theory?"

"Almost nothing," he admitted with a shrug.

"Then I'll spare you the lengthy, dry, and probably totally incomprehensible break down of how the Trace works and how I can get it off and stick to a practical demonstration. I assume you have a way of testing my work?"

Neville nodded. "I still want some kind of explanation."

"The Trace is on the _wands_. It's actually on all of them, is before you even buy them as a kid – people like Malfoy think they're exempt but they aren't. They just haven't been individually singled out the way everyone in the Order, everyone in the DA was. Getting that kind of a specific read from the Trace added to every registered wand is hard, it takes a pretty damn talented magician to be able to do it the first time, but once it's done, it's done, and any borderline competent hack can follow you." He shrugged. "I can take it off and once it's off, it's gone and they can't bring it back, not without access to the physical wand itself."

"If this is true," Neville began, talking slowly, and a woman from across the room interrupted him, "it would change everything."

"How did you find that out?" It was the man again, the one who'd challenged him first. "People have died trying to get that information and now you waltz in here – "

"It was hardly a waltz."

" – and offer us the holy fucking grail of intel _and_ you claim to have the ability to make good on the knowledge. Forgive me, _Master Zabini of the Dark Lord's Army_, for being a tad suspicious."

Zabini nodded and said, calmly, "I found out by _waltzing_ into a restricted area and reading." Neville raised his eyebrows quizzically and Zabini smiled. "There are a lot ways to hack into any system, you know. You can imperius people, you can blast your way in, you can reason your way around the safeguards in place, or you can use simple social engineering."

"Explain."

"You walk up, just a mid-level strategist, no one important, good enough at your job but generally considered a little out of touch outside your area of expertise, and you talk to the assistant who's manning the doorway into the restricted area. You know it's a huge favor, and you know she'd be breaking the rules, but Lord High Muckity Muck forgot his special thing and you need to go get it and these Lords, it's always their fault that they've forgotten whatever it is, but you'll end up taking the blame. She knows how it is, right? And she always does; she always knows exactly what it's like to be blamed by a superior officer for something that wasn't her fault so she commiserates. If you'd just let me through, you say, I won't tell anyone, and you'd be doing me a huge favor, keeping me out of trouble. She'll look around, nervously, and you say, 'there's no one here.' and then she lets you in. Every. Fucking. Time.

"I'd go in, read as much as I could, get out, obliviate her, and go on my merry way. I've learned a _lot_, Neville Longbottom. And one day the book I picked up was about the Trace."

"Show me."

Zabini held out his hand. "I'll need my wand and one you'd like me to demonstrate on. Also, quiet so I can concentrate. I think I mentioned this is rather difficult."

"Give him his wand and, if he's as good as he claims, he can blast his way out of here," someone objected.

Zabini laughed at that. "There's good but, my god man, do you think if I could take down an entire armed resistance from within their own headquarters by myself you'd still be out here, fighting the Dark Lord? He'd be long dead, as would half his people."

Neville handed Zabini his wand and the man sighed, relaxing a little as his fingers closed around the familiar wood. Being without one's wand was like being without a hand; he was sure people adjusted, eventually, but to have it back, even after just a short time without it, felt… good. He wondered how all these witches and wizards had stood it, being effectively magic-less for so long. He held his hand out waiting for the test wand to be handed over and felt a bit of shock as Neville Longbottom pulled out what was clearly his own and tossed it over. Blaise Zabini grabbed it out of the air and said, "Trusting sort, aren't you?"

"Not really," was all the man said at first, then, as Zabini looked at him, "Put up or shut up, as they say."

He kissed Ginny's hair again and reluctantly pulled her from his lap. She stood behind him, silently watching as he laid out Neville's wand and began the lengthy series of incantations that first let him see the Trace that had been put on the wand before it had even been sold, a fine net of magical wires that covered the whole thing, and then, very – _very - _carefully, peel it back. Fuck it up and he'd destroy the wand and, quite possibly, the room. His audience fell away from his awareness and it became less of a display of prowess or an exchange of services and wholly about sinking into that shapeless, timeless zone, where all that he had the luxury of seeing were the tendrils of energy interwoven with one another. Zabini tracked the magic on the wood with his eyes, with the inherent ability born into his body, and worked intently at unraveling and removing it from the object before him.

By the time he was done his head was pounding and every time he closed his eyes, stars burst behind his lids; he'd been a little cocky when he'd told them he could do this. Technically, yes, he could, but he'd never tried it before with a wand that had been specifically tracked and it turned out that made the Trace much more titchy and the whole thing took more time, more concentration. Still, eventually, it was done and, breathing in and out before he blacked out, he picked up the unTraced and now unTraceable wand and tossed it back. Neville caught it and, by the way his eyes widened, he could feel the difference.

"To delve into a little bit of the tedious theory," Zabini drawled, rubbing at his head, "the original Trace draws on the power of the wand itself to work. Take it off and without that drain you might notice a slight change in the way the thing feels. You'll get used to it."

"You've done yours, I take it?" Neville hefted his wand moving it back and forth as the whole room watched them, still silent.

"Oh yes," Zabini felt Ginny start to rub at his temples and he leaned back into her touch. "Eventually you'll forget what it felt like Traced. Yours might be a little more of a …dramatic… change than mine; yours was being tracked so it was using a little more of the charge, as it were."

"I still don't trust him," the man was talking again.

"Bugger off, John," someone said.

"I'm going to go out and test this," Neville said. "Watch him while I'm gone and someone get the man a draught for his head, and then brew up a bunch more of it. We don't want our waltzing holy grail here to be incapacitated by a migraine every time he fixes a wand."

"Thanks," Zabini muttered.

"If what you claim is true, welcome to the resistance, Blaise Zabini."

"You said that before."

"Yeah, well, this time I mean it."

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco looked at the woman sitting next to Theodore Nott across the dinner table. As usual, her hands were folded in her lap as the man hand fed her, a quirk that struck Draco as bizarrely labor intensive. She was, also as usual, dressed in a gown that must have taken the castle staff days to make. He found Nott's casual co-opting of the staff to make his little mistress clothes rather droll but it wasn't the dress that caught his eye, nor her current crop of bruises, faded to a dull yellow but still visible on her upper arms. No, what he couldn't look away from was the sizable emerald that hung between the swell of her breasts; that, he thought, was no trivial bauble.

"Pretty," he tipped his head towards her and Nott smiled, that toothy grin of his.

"The girl or the jewel?" he asked.

"I was thinking of the necklace but, of course, your lady is lovely as well."

"Lady?" Blaise looked up at that with a sneer on his face. "Is that what we're calling them now?"

"Shut your mouth, Zabini," Nott's tone remained totally pleasant but he watched both Evans and that Marie girl shrink back in their seats at his words. Pathetic, really, that the stupid bints had the sense to be afraid of him and the _strategist_ didn't.

"I didn't mean you," Zabini amended quietly and touched Marie's arm. She forced a smile to her face but still held herself as far away from Nott as she could without actually fleeing the room.

"Whom did you mean, Master Zabini?" Nott watched in growing amazement as Helen Evans goaded the man with false sweetness. She wasn't _quite_ as stupid as she pretended to be, was she? And, for all that she was terrified of him she apparently hated Zabini more. Wasn't that fascinating.

"Are you claiming to be a lady now, Miss Evans?" Zabini sipped from his wine and smiled back at the woman. "I've known at least one true lady in my life but she would have died before whoring herself out for a little false security."

"Shut your mouth, Zabini." It was Malfoy who spoke this time, his manner dark and cold, and Evans who reached out a hand to touch his sleeve.

"It's okay," she murmured and the blonde only barely settled. "I'm sure if Master Zabini had known and truly valued such a woman he would have died himself before letting anything happen to her. Anyway, I'm sure he doesn't mean it the way it sounds."

Nott suspected by the way her eyes narrowed as she looked at Zabini – and, really, how _could_ the man drink this vile wine – she knew he meant it _exactly_ the way it sounded and didn't appreciate his judgment at all. The man was looking back at her as though he'd happily slit her throat right there at the table. Really, Zabini needed to get over his puritanical disdain for other men's sex lives. As creepy as the Granger fetish was, Malfoy was well within his rights to do what he liked with Miss Evans and, as tedious and unattractive as the woman was, she didn't deserve to be insulted over dinner because she'd had the good luck to snare a powerful protector.

Manners, Zabini, Nott thought. Manners are important.

Nott idly wondered who Zabini's mysterious lady had been but, more, he was amused by how the man had managed to antagonize everyone at the table with his narrow morality, everyone except the illiterate cleaning woman he wasn't even able to get it up for. Even his own little pet had stiffened under the man's slur.

And, if Nott was being particular – which he _always_ was – neither Evans nor his own darling were whores. Whores got paid. Mistresses got presents. Well, at least his did.

His was going to get quite a bit more than that necklace in the future, he thought, eyeing her with pleasure. Now, however, he just reached out and lifted up her pendant and looked at Malfoy. "Yes, to go back to your original comment, it is pretty isn't it? I had it made especially for her."

"Locally?" Malfoy wiped his mouth and set his knife down.

Nott snorted. "Hardly. I doubt anyone in the godforsaken place would even know how to set a rock, much less have access to things of a quality I'd find acceptable." He looked at Evans and made an obvious face. "I demand the best, always."

Malfoy missed the way Nott dismissed his taste, however, because he was looking at the necklace with a focused intensity that blocked everything else out. Nott wondered how long it would take before Evans sported a similar pendant. Pathetic, really, how obvious the man's need for one-upmanship was.

You shouldn't let me see your weaknesses so easily, Nott thought, feeding his pet another bite.

You shouldn't let me see that contempt, Malfoy thought, glancing at Nott as he thought about what color stone would look best on Granger. I'm the only Lord here and I plan to keep it that way; try to remember that _Master_ Nott.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise handed the newly unTraced wand back to its owner and took another sip of the potion to try to combat the raging pain in his head. He could only do so many before he became totally incapacitated. There'd been some grumbles at first about the rate but as more and more wands became usable, and as the toll the magic took on him became more and more obvious, those grumbles had died away, replaced by first grudging and then wholehearted respect.

"You need to stop," Neville sat down next to him. "That's enough for today. Get back up to the castle before they notice you're missing. Anthony'll walk you back."

"I don't need a bloody escort."

Neville just looked at him. The rebels who walked him back were taking their lives in their hands; it was a wholly volunteer position because everyone knew if they were spotted the plan was for Zabini to claim he'd captured the rebel while doing reconnaissance. They needed a _reason_ he was out in the woods all the time these days.

The unfortunate volunteer was risking death; he'd have to escape or die during a "struggle" after Zabini met up with his regime comrades because no one could afford to have any rebels getting into Nott's hands. It was a dangerous game.

"Neville," Blaise had been trying to figure out how to broach this topic for a while now and had finally decided to just spit it out. "Don't trust Granger."

"I know," the man nodded. "She's been imperiused."

Zabini snorted at that. "Not hardly. She's – "

"She can't have led Malfoy to her meeting point of her own volition." Neville was shaking his head, disbelief in his words – or maybe denial. "Not Hermione Granger."

"Yes," Blaise looked at the other man, willing him to understand how serious he was without tipping over the precarious foundation of trust he'd began constructing. "Yes, she did. She's, he's, they're…"

"I know she's fucking him," Neville said bluntly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of that knowledge. "I know she's…"

"She's on his side." Blaise said it flatly. "Or as good as. She's _willing_, Neville. Not raped. Not imperiused. Not tortured. _Willing_."

Neville held up a hand to stop Zabini's unwelcome flow of information, shutting his eyes as if that'd help barricade him from the truth. "Sometimes," he said at last, "a person in a horrible situation might have to make a wrong choice."

"You didn't." Zabini said. "I didn't."

"Sometimes, there's no choice," Neville said, again.

"There's always a choice," Zabini said quietly as he rose to head back to the castle.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo looked at his pet, sprawled in her usual place by the fire. He'd picked up some of those dreadful novels for her and she was silently reading, chewing on her lip. He narrowed his eyes and considered for a moment, then poured two glasses of wine and joined her, holding one of them out to her.

She looked at the glass in his hand and raised her eyes to his, confirming he was letting her have it, letting her hold the glass herself. Before she took it she pulled herself back into a far more graceful position – he was not especially tolerant of awkwardness. He watched her sip for a few minutes, watched the light of the flames warm the cool green of this gown. She was like a late summer afternoon and reminded him of how the sun could make the whole world glow. It startled him whenever he looked at her how very much he'd come to enjoy her, more, to like her.

"Love," he said at last, "I want to ask you a few questions."

She nodded obediently, her eyes on his hands.

"What do you know about Evans?" She looked up at him, then, confusion clear on her pretty face. "The woman in Malfoy's room," he clarified.

She shook her head at that. "Not very much, sir. She arrived in the village from somewhere, almost immediately got a job at the castle."

"Did you never ask where she came from," he pressed.

"So many people came through in the early years of the war," his little beauty whispered. "And I was so young. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't ask."

"It's all right," he ran a hand possessively over her hair. "What do you think of her now?"

"I hate her," the girl whispered, looking down. Nott smiled; apparently he wasn't the only one who found little Helen Evans irritating. "She thinks she's so much better than I am."

"She's not," Theo twined his pet's hair gently around his hand. "When we leave this place, little one, I plan to parade you before the highest echelons of society wrapped in silks and glittering with diamonds and emeralds. You're mine and I only have the very best things. Evans can stay here, wallowing in the filth of her pig sties."

His pet has looked up at that, searching his face. "Tsk," he murmured. "Eyes." She looked down immediately and he smiled, so pleased with her. "Yes, I plan to keep you. I hope that isn't upsetting to you."

"No, sir." She looked like she was trying to restrain herself from crawling into his lap and he ran his hand down her arm, feeling her shudder under his touch. So many delights to be had, but before he started he wanted to ask her about the other one.

"Tell me about Marie."

His pet shrugged. "She's a few years older than I am so I never knew her well though, of course, we were in school together."

"School?" Nott's hand stilled on her arm and she tensed, sensing the change in his mood.

"It was more just a room in someone's house," she whispered. "Not really a proper school, not like what you had, sir. But we learned to read and do some basic sums and simple spells. I was good at potions."

"I'm sure you were." He returned to stroking her arm. "Read, you say? You say she can read?"

"Of course she can," his little angel said, confused. "Everyone whose parents sent them to school learned to read. Not everyone went, less than half, maybe, and fewer after the war started, but…"

Theodore Nott carefully took the wine glass, nearly empty now, out of her hand and set it, with his own, on the hearth before he lay her back down on the floor, taking the time to arrange her hair around her face. He slipped the skirts up, admired how she was bare under all those layers of rustling fabric, and began kissing up her thigh. "I'm so very pleased with you, pet. I think it's time for a little reward."

"Sir?" she asked and he stroked a finger over her and she arched under his hand, already starting to gasp at his touch.

"You would prefer the knife?" He leaned on his elbows and watched her, amused.

"I…," she stammered, "Whatever you want, sir."

"Exactly," he lowered his mouth to her and added, "and right now, pet, what I want is to remind you how very good I can be to you when you make me happy."

. . . . . . . . . .

_Hurry, hurry, hurry._

She scolded herself for falling asleep again; it was quickly becoming a bad habit and she'd messed up already at least twice before.

She moved swiftly and silently through the corridors, doing her best to scribble a note that both made sense and was legible between picking her head up to check, double check, and triple check her surroundings. By the time she'd woken up, the fire had already burned down to embers and the moon had traveled a ways through the night's sky. Master Zabini had yet to return from his patrols for some reason, but she had little time to worry over it, she had to get to the drop point and back before he returned. People were counting on her for this information; she couldn't let them down.

Marie neared her destination, soft soled feet making barely a whisper of noise in the stillness of the hall and she was about to round the corner when she heard labored gasps for breath. Startled, she snapped back, flush against the wall, and clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle her squeak of surprise. Eyes wide, she waited to see if whoever was there had noticed her, doing her very best to melt into the stones all the while.

The gasp came again, followed by a low, predatory - and decidedly male - growl.

Hands shaking, she fumbled for the table knife she'd tucked into her skirts at dinner in preparation for her midnight stroll. The sad little thing was blunt and a trifle bent to one side, but it was something, and something was better than nothing. Taking several calming breaths, she slowly, carefully peered around the corner and what she saw almost caused her to drop her weapon and she had to clap a hand over her mouth again.

"You're out past curfew," he growled into her ear as he caged her in with an arm on either side of her head and his hips pressed very solidly to hers.

Her breath caught at the feel of him and she pushed at his chest, seeming unsurprised when he didn't budge. "I was headed to the library, thank you very much. If you would let me pass, I could be on my way and back and thereby no longer breaking curfew," the words came out as matter-of-factly as they always had with a hint of breathlessness in each syllable.

"Let you pass?" he rumbled and eyed her heatedly, "And let you break _more _rules? Those books don't belong to you."

"Hence why I'd be _borrowing_ them from the library, git."

The woman's snappish reply was accompanied by a fiery twinkle in her eye and Marie tightened her grip on the knife. What was Evans doing? She was going to get herself _killed_ talking to him like that!

"Tsk," he clucked his tongue and chuckled, "I'm afraid I've got a job to do, love, a responsibility to provide structure and security to the occupants of the castle. To do that, I'm afraid I'm going to have to deal with your insubordination."

_Oh! Oh no!_ _She's in trouble!_ Marie prepared herself to step out, to help the other witch however she could, but was stopped in her tracks by the Commander's next movements.

His head dipped again, this time trailing down her cheek to her neck and, by the sound of Evans, he'd found a sweet spot. Her head knocked back against the wall and she shuddered out a groan, stifling a few select other noises by biting at her lip.

"If you're going to deal with me," the witch gasped out, hands coming around to tangle in his blonde hair, "then _do it_. You always talk too bloody much."

Draco Malfoy chuckled and in a blur of motion, he hoisted her up with his hands under her thighs and slammed her against the wall, capturing her surprised noise in a kiss before it could be known to the night's air.

Hermione moaned into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist, and her fingers clawed at his back and scalp in both an encouraging and stifling manner. She pressed hard at his chest, looking conflicted and terribly eager all at once. She managed to pull away, speaking between shallow pants, "We can't - not here, we -"

"_Can,_" he growled and kissed her again, maneuvering his grip to support her with one arm and tasked the other with making such an intent very possible as he lifted her skirt. Coming away for breath and a better angle to balance her while working at his trousers, he mumbled against her bosom, "Zabini's still gone on patrol, been gone for Merlin knows how long and the other -" He knew not to say Nott's name by now when he was trying to keep her in the mood. "- is occupied. So we bloody well _can_."

Seemingly appeased by his explanation, she gave him a few dumb nods before fisting her hands in his hair again and dragging him back to her mouth. Her eyes nearly rolled back at the ferocity of his kiss and the wonderful weightless feeling when he'd finally gotten a good hold of her and began moving her above him in a way she'd introduced him to that he'd taken to very keenly.

_NOT in trouble. Very VERY not in trouble._

Marie turned away from the torrid scene, eyes round as saucers with her note and knife clutched in white knuckled grips as she scurried back to Master Zabini's room, trying to ignore the noises coming from the corridor. Miss Evans' bum was currently pressed against the nearest drop point and she had the sneakiest of suspicions that she wouldn't have been able to complete the drop without being noticed. It was too late tonight, she would have to try again tomorrow... maybe a different part of the castle as well... one less _used._

All the way back to her room, she couldn't get the sight of the pair out of her mind.

She may not have been the brightest witch, but she knew very well what went on behind the closed doors of the others' suites; things that, somewhat to her dismay, did not happen behind what she considered her own.

Marie knew that Miss Evans and the Commander had become intimate, some time ago at that, even though - unlike so many witches - she didn't share the tales of her exploits. Along those same lines, Marie also knew that the other girl, whose name she _still_ couldn't recall, entertained Master Nott in a much, much more disturbing, yet similar way.

Those things were obvious, if not by the common sense of the nature of things, then by the way they all looked at one another in the dining hall. Yes, to not see that all, one would have to be blind.

It wasn't any of those things that distracted her really. What was so confusing was the burning question of,_ "Why were they wearing those school robes?"_

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco – sorry, she thought to herself almost fondly now, _Lord Malfoy_ – sat at his desk reading the day's mail while she sprawled on the bed, nominally reading a book but really studying him. As he flicked open the seal on one letter, began to read, his posture changed from casually bored and irritated to tense. She slipped off the bed with a frown and crossed over to him, put her hands on his shoulders and started to slowly rub them. He actually let her comfort him, which confirmed that he was genuinely upset about whatever he'd read.

"What's the matter," she asked, letting her thumb work out a particularly tight spot.

"They've moved my mother," he said, his voice without inflection. "I've been reassured she's still an honored guest in the very same paragraph that expresses concerns at my lack of progress in sending any rebels south."

That grimace deepened as she recalled what few details she'd been able to obtain of the Malfoy matriarch's situation. "I'm sorry," she murmured, growing more concerned when he allowed her to run her fingertips through the fine hairs at his nape with no reaction.

"Yes, you're sorry. I'm sorry. Everyone is fucking sorry and if I don't ship a body or two down for questioning she's a dead woman."

Hermione hesitated, then said, "I could help you get her out."

"And how, exactly, would you do that?"

She dropped to her knees at his side, put her hands on his face and turned him towards her. "Draco," she started.

"_Lord Malfoy"_ he snapped.

She put her fingers over his mouth and weathered his temper. "No. _Draco_. I could help you get her out. I'm the smartest witch of our age, remember?" She smiled sadly, looking at his haunted expression. "And you're the most feared commander in the Dark Lord's forces. Surely, between the two of us, there's nothing we can't do."

He watched her face, studied her eyes. "Why would you help her? She certainly wouldn't do it for you."

"I know somewhat what it is to be a woman in a cage in this world," she said tightly. "Her prison may have been more comfortable than mine, but she's still trapped."

"At least it's not a literal cage," he muttered, thinking of things he'd glimpsed in other people's rooms.

"Promise me," she shuddered, "that if Nott ever does to me what he's done to that girl – what he's doing to that girl – that you'll kill me."

"Granger," he smoothed a hand over her hair, "I can promise you that if that bastard ever had you in his power I would be dead and unable to help you."

There wasn't much to say to that and she knelt there in silence, her hands on his face still, watching him watch her.

"Would you really help me," he asked at last, his voice loud after the silence.

When she nodded his jaw tightened and he reached down and wrapped his arms around her, silently carried her back to their bed. Silently still, almost reverently, he laid her down and pulled her clothes away, pressing his lips to each expanse of skin exposed to him in a way that sent the butterflies in her belly aflutter.

For the first time the sex was slow, the touches careful. He watched her as he drew his fingers along her skin, looked at her as if she were something rare and precious that he'd never seen before. He reveled in her melodic sighs and drew them out with gentle, languid kisses that had her moaning his name in a way he'd never heard before.

If his eyes sparkled with wetness in the dim light, she didn't say anything.

If the words she finally gasped against his shoulder as she came had less to do with his prowess and more to do with her emotions, well, he tucked those away as things to think about another day.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Things move along, both in the castle and out of it, and, of course, we welcome your thoughts on all of it._

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina, plus the drabbles we both do. _

_We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and lechegomyeggo _

_Thank you to all our readers and reviewers. Most especially: Temperance Valentine, qiana, hellokittyaniya, LadiePhoenix007, Artemisgodess, Brightki, Jenny Felton, CasaCan, Rose Davis, apple77, MorningSnow03, Calimocho, punkrocksammy, lakelady8425, Cheringin, , Grovek26, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, FaeBreeze, moriah._


	17. 16 - Under Pressure

"Sometimes, my sweet, I'm not wholly sure what to do."

Theodore Nott had turned his seat around so he faced the room rather than his endless and uninteresting paperwork and was studying his pet. She knelt, hands tied behind her, bound to a ring he'd found embedded in the stone floor. She made a pretty picture, he mused, head down, rumpled, a dried line of blood still visible across one thigh, the crop still tossed haphazardly next to her; she was, he noticed, carefully not looking at it. He was _stressed _and being around Theodore Nott when he was stressed could be hazardous to one's well being. If he'd had any other girl he'd probably have injured her badly enough to have to toss her aside and get a new toy; that he'd merely made this one scream was a testament to how very much he liked her.

"Sir?" she said, the hesitation in her voice clear. Upset him by speaking and he'd start in on her again. Ignore him and risk having that be the thing that angered him.

"Not with you." He nudged her with his foot and, when she dared looking up at him, smiled fondly at her. "As much as you're a treasure, you're not confusing."

"Maybe I could…" she licked her lips and pulled lightly at the strap holding her in place.

"No," he shook his head and she looked back down again. "Thank you for offering, pet," he added, "but I don't need a quick release, I need a plan and your lovely mouth isn't likely to help me there."

"I could listen," she offered quietly and he tipped his head to the side and regarded her.

"That you could." He steepled his fingers and thought for a bit. "I'm trying to decide, little one, how to best throw my lot in with Lord Malfoy, or even if I should. For all that he's tiresome in any number of ways, he's also consistently successful at everything except politics. My original goal was merely to document his failures but he seems to be most inept at failing, which is bothersome. Do I sabotage him, thus getting the proof I need that he can't be trusted, or do I undercut my own direct commander and insinuate myself into his good graces?"

"Master Zabini?" she asked, looking up at him again and Nott laughed.

"Oh, well, Zabini's a prick, right enough, but no one cares about him except maybe that bit of unattractive fluff in his room. I think if I ever got sufficiently tired of him I could just leave him alone with Evans and a sharp knife and she'd take care of him for me. Then, of course, I'd have an excuse to rid the world of her as well, which I'd do if I knew I planned to sell out Malfoy but until I know that for sure it's short-sighted to get rid of a lever I could use to control him.

"He's mighty controllable, our Malfoy. It's one of his most appealing qualities, really. You know about his mother, right?"

His pet shook her head, her hair swaying across her lowered face.

"She's kept locked up tight in one castle or another, always an honored guest, always a hostage to his good behavior." Nott snorted contemptuously. "And he lets them do it which is one reason people dislike him so. If some low level political rat tried to lock you up and use you to blackmail me I'd kill everyone between your cage and myself. You can't let people turn you into a weakling like that and, besides, no one touches my things."

"Thank you," she whispered and Nott sighed.

"You need a bath," he said. A quick flick of his wand and the knots holding her in place untied themselves and she almost fell forward before she caught herself. "Order a tub and wash the blood away."

"Yes, sir," she rose carefully to her feet, stretching out tight muscles and cringing a bit as especially sore areas moved and shifted.

She was tugging on the rope that would summon a drudge to take her orders, bring her the water when he asked, "What would you suggest, my lovely?"

"Wait," she whispered, eyes on the floor. "Maybe… have two plans, each with all your papers, so that you can…" she trailed off, clearly afraid that despite his question she'd overstepped.

"Go on," he encouraged, fascinated by her attempts at counsel. Play both ends, she seemed to be saying.

"If his mother were to… not be an issue," she said, "would that be different? For you?"

"Very much so," he said, eyeing her keenly. "Do you know something, my sweet one?"

"I heard Miss Evans," she admitted, "talking about 'your mother' with Lord Malfoy. I think… I think you wait and see what…"

"You are a wonder," he said, watching her. "And I think perhaps you should start spending more time with dear Miss Evans and your old school chum, Marie."

She looked at him sharply at that, clear displeasure painted on her face. "Must I, sir?"

"It would make me happy," he said, amused. "And I'll let you be as free in your movements with them as you like, set the silly things at ease, and let's find out what Miss Evans is talking about, shall we?"

She pouted as she looked down and he laughed just as the door opened and a sloppy drudge with dirt in her face, a rank smell and a dress that had seen better days stood, waiting for her instructions. "You called me, Master Nott," she said, faultlessly polite.

"She did," Nott waved his hand towards his naked pet and moved to turn back to his paperwork, but not before he saw the look of disgust and contempt on the servant's face as she eyed his treasure. "And if you treat her with anything other than the utmost respect," he added, "I'll skin you alive."

. . . . . . . . . .

He sat at his desk, hunched over his reports in comfortable fitting bedclothes that kept shifting in their color and cut, thanks to the woman lounging on the bed behind him. Draco sifted through his maps and tried to find his latest accounts of which trade routes were still running. He grimaced when he found that other sections of the rebellion seemed to be still actively at work; destroyed railways, burned ports, demolished buildings, they were piling up with startling frequency and he still had yet to discover what means they were using to strike down these points with such ferocity and precision. He would find something, damn it all, he _would_.

His shirt shifted again to something thick and warm, a stark contrast to the other simple aesthetic changes she'd been making, and he paused in his work to take in what she was up to this time. His eyebrows arched high when he realized he was now sporting a thick Quidditch sweater in his old house colors and accompanying uniform trousers and he turned to her. "I thought you didn't like the sport," he said with a knowing smirk, tossing the report he'd been searching through aside to make his way back to the bed.

Hermione was sitting upright on her knees, openly appraising him as he approached and rolling her wand idly between her fingers. "I loathe it. The uniforms, however, are positively brilliant."

He neared, sauntering confidently up to her and running his fingertips along the edge of one of his long button down shirts that she was sporting. Draco peeked beneath the hem and his smirk grew when he found she hadn't bothered to redress completely since their last tumble. "No, this, _this_ is brilliant." The smooth tip of her wand nudged his chin up until he was looking into her eyes, all too pleased with himself. "Naughty little minx, Granger..."

"Shut your gob, Malfoy," she said with a little spark to her eye that did anything but anger him, "Or use it for something more productive."

Draco eyed the way she was looking at him - a little challenge, a little eagerness, a _lot_ of lust – and gave her the smallest smirk before he darted his hands out, one clamping down on her wand hand and the other around her bare arse to lift her and move to press her down into the bed. The movement was so quick and sudden that her wide-eyed surprise was genuine.

"There's a reason I was Seeker, love," he purred in explanation, releasing her wrist in favor of bracing his arms on either side of her head and more easily admire her still "thoroughly shagged" appearance.

"More brooms for everyone to ride?" she asked smartly, tucking her wand back beneath her pillow for later and smoothing her hands down the heavy ribbing of his sweater.

Draco snorted and dipped his head to whisper in her ear, drawing her lobe between his teeth. "Just the one, sweetheart, and it's all for you."

She scoffed, hid the shiver at his remark despite herself, and snaked her fingers beneath the edge of the jumper, "I'm not sure I'm very interested at all in riding your broom, Malfoy."

He chuckled and took another nibble at her ear before kissing his way down her long line of neck, inhaling the light floral fragrance she'd been so keen on from the last batch of recreational bundles that'd come in. "Really?" he rumbled against her skin, nipping at her pulse point, "Because, if I'm not mistaken, you are still _just_ wearing my Oxford – knickers lost to the wind. Might as well be my jersey with my name branded across your back." That's for next time, he thought. "A bloke tends to take that as an invitation."

Hermione rubbed her hands across his abs, delighting in the chiseled muscles there and tilted her head to give him more access. She sighed in pleasure when his kisses turned to more insistent bites over her already tender spots from before.

"Is it?" he paused to ask, gray eyes glittering up at her now from the crook of her neck, waiting even though he already knew the answer.

She teased a foot along one of his legs, stroking over the fabric of his trousers while her little hands smoothly made their way to unfasten them and start nudging them down his hips. "You should find out for yourself."

"Bossy," Draco murmured fondly into her neck. He smirked, basking in the sound of her gasp when she felt him hot and solid and bare, pressed right at her entrance and didn't bother stifling his own groan when he slid into her, already so wet and ready.

Her hands clutched at his top, the moan at being filled by him again so delightfully soon spurring him to seek out her kiss in lieu of suckling her sweet tasting skin so he could capture every little sound she made. He loved hearing her so free of her inhibitions. He loved feeling her much, _much_ more. He loved _this_ with _her _and found he could no longer even start to imagine his days without it.

They freed each other from their remaining bits of clothing, even the carefully spelled sweater she went through the trouble of transfiguring, in favor of enjoying one another skin to skin. He took her slowly this time, his tongue sweeping past her lips and massaging hers along with each thrust and she mewled and writhed and raked her nails over his back as he stoked that heat building in her womb with measured care.

The day, full of work, stress, his unpleasant companions, and absolutely all of his aggravations fell away and he lost himself in the witch, the woman, _his_ woman, in his arms.

He brought her, with long, slow thrusts, and a careful touch between them and she him. She dragged him along with the words she gasped again so earnestly in his ear and her tight walls fluttering and clamping down around him.

This time, with his shuddered release, his hands tangled in her hair and face buried in her neck, he murmured promises upon promises upon promises about the future.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione summoned a polite smile from somewhere as Master Theodore Nott opened the door to Zabini's suite with his peculiar girl standing several feet behind him.

"Miss Evans," he smiled at her, a smile that looked actually genuine and thus terrified her far more than his usual cold leers. He was happy about something and Hermione assumed anything that made Theodore Nott happy was something she wouldn't like. "Marie," he added and the other girl bobbed her head in a submissive gesture, one that had probably diverted attention from her more than once in her life. "I'm afraid I have to ask both of you to keep my little pet company today, and perhaps quite a bit going forward. I'm afraid I need to concentrate on work a bit more and Master Zabini has assured me it would be absolutely fine for her to join you."

"We'd be delighted, Master Nott," Hermione lied, eyeing the girl with what she hoped was concealed displeasure. Marie was bad enough; she was illiterate, unintelligent, and pathetically in love with Zabini and spending time with her was almost worse – often was worse – than just reading novels in Malfoy's room. Still, she never worried that Marie was unbalanced, never eyed the woman and tried to decide if she needed rescuing or - disgusting thought - didn't.

Now Nott deposited the girl in the room with them and left, off, no doubt, to do evil things and Hermione played the same game she played every night at dinner: how many bruises could she count.

The girl stood uneasily in the doorway, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, flickering with red as she turned to look with some longing at the door that had closed behind her.

"Are you allowed on the furniture yet?" Hermione asked, turning her back on the girl and rolling her eyes at Marie, who raised her hand to cover a smile. "Or, like a well-trained dog, do you still stay on the floor?"

The girl didn't say anything, just crossed the room and sat on the edge of a chair and stared at both of the other women.

"That's a pretty dress," Marie said, trying to be kind.

"It should be," Hermione muttered, sorting through the collection of books Marie had accumulated, searching for one they hadn't read yet. "Her master makes the staff sew constantly, keeping his little toy all gussied up." She returned to her search, uncaring of the added presence in the room. She held one book out addressing only Zabini's girl. "_His Reluctant Bride_," she read. "_'All purebloods must take a wife by order of the Dark Lord and Daniel finds himself bound to his childhood nemesis. Will he tame her fiery soul before she captures his heart?'_ Have we read this one yet?"

"I don't think so," Marie murmured, glancing to Nott's girl and back. "It just came up in the latest shipment from the City."

"That sounds interesting," the girl said, smiling rather wanly.

"She speaks," Hermione said with a grimace, sorting through a few more novels before settling on one to return to her usual spot with. "I didn't know that was allowed."

"Helen," Marie objected and Hermione snorted.

"Will you be allowed to eat this time?" she asked, still sniping at the girl in that so superior tone she carried all through school, "or is that still forbidden unless Nott puts the food in your mouth himself?"

"I do what I want," the girl said, looking up. "I'm free to go anytime."

"Sure you are," Hermione muttered.

"Just because you don't understand - " the girl started but Hermione cut her off.

"I understand Nott beats you. I understand you're covered in bruises and marks every time I see you. I understand the staff is afraid to go in his rooms because of what they see! And," she added with a sneer reminiscent of her own blond keeper, "I understand he dumped you in here to report back to him anything we say or do, which is hilarious since what we _do_ is read these books and complain about the food all day. What I don't understand, since you're apparently 'free to go' is why you'd put up with the way he treats you."

"I like him," the girl said, her voice wavering. "And he likes me. And you don't know what you're talking about."

"Abused women," Hermione said, very slowly as though she were speaking to someone not very bright, "often start to identify with their abusers. To feel sympathy for them, to feel a connection with them. Do you understand what I'm – "

"_You_," the girl repeated, more firmly this time, "don't know what you're talking about."

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco Malfoy, wearing just pajama bottoms because his witch had commandeered the matching top, was pouring over his reports as he always did at least once during their evenings together and tonight he looked particularly vexed.

Hermione was watching him with pleasure – years on the battlefield had left her evil warlord in excellent condition and she'd stopped pretending, even to herself, that she didn't like looking at him - when he let out a frustrated snarl at his paperwork and swept the papers off his desk in a fit. She watched him growl out a few more irritated noises and swipe his hands over his face several times before she finally sighed and padded over to him.

"This is bloody useless!" he snapped. "I'm never going to find anything."

"It's good to know your elevated station within the Dark Lord's army hasn't lessened your flair for dramatics."

"Granger," he warned in that gravelly tone, "not in the mood." She'd started snarking at him more frequently as of late and, truth be told, he enjoyed it. He quite liked seeing that sass and fire returned to her step and tone, just not right _now. _He was _stressed_ right now.

Hermione bent down to gather some of the discarded documents - trade routes, intelligence, other miscellany - and leaned in to peel his hands away from his face. She ignored the dark glare he sent her and settled into his lap with a minimal amount of protest from him. Adjusting herself with her back to his chest, she spread the papers back on the desk and smoothed them out. "Here, let's have another look."

A hand came down almost immediately, blocking her view of the papers and he grumbled, "You're not supposed to see these."

She turned then and gave him an incredulous look. "Really? Is that what you're really going to go with?"

They locked stares for a long moment; Draco had very nearly forgotten just how stubborn this woman could be when she wasn't pliant and coming in his arms. Finally, he blew out an exasperated breath and retracted his hand, wrapping the arm around her waist instead and burying his face against her. "I've looked through them all already a million times and then threw them away and retrieved them again to look at them a million more. I have very limited options regarding whom I can speak to and contact that won't give the whole thing away and get her killed anyway."

Hermione ran a hand over his arm, felt his sigh fan out over her skin and ruffle her hair. She flattened out the rumpled parchments again, eyes scanning over the documents and sorted them into piles. "Sometimes when your mind is so set on seeing something one way, you can't see it as any other. Let me have a look and see."

The witch in his arms leaned forward, bending over the papers intently with just his hold steadying her on his lap. He watched her profile and how her eyes were wide and bright, flitting about and actively scanning the text to work out the problem of formulating a plan. This was the Granger that he loved to watch in school or in the library, working through equations and taking in everything around her; it was entrancing, she was entrancing. God, but she was brilliant. It was easy to forget that when she was trapped like this. He had to free her, free her to openly be her brilliant, amazing self at his side.

She was absorbed in her inspection, oblivious to the fond way he was staring at her and actually managed to startle him when she popped upright suddenly with a wide, devious grin splitting her features. "Oh! I've an idea, I think we can use this!" Hermione turned to him, that grin faltering when she realized he was smirking up at her with a strange look in his eyes. "What?"

Draco shook his head and turned his attention back to the desk, nodding at it once and resting his chin on her shoulder. "Nothing. Show me what you've found."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Sir," Nott looked up in surprise. His sweet pet was sitting by the fire, where she'd been since he'd fetched her from her afternoon play date. She'd been subdued when he'd gathered her and seemed to be bracing herself for something now.

"You'd like to speak?" he asked, setting aside his quill and turning his full attention to her.

"Yes, please," she said, very quietly.

"Go on, then."

"Please don't make me go back there." She hesitated, then continued on in a rush, "I want to make you happy, I do. I do anything you ask, I've done everything you've asked. And…"

"And you like it," he added gently.

"But not that," she said. Her eyes were up, looking at him, begging him to understand. "They… they aren't nice to me. They look down on me, they think I should be ashamed that we… that you…that I…. Please don't make me go back." She stopped again and he was shocked to see she was actually crying. He rose from his desk and knelt down in front of her in a matter of seconds.

"Pet," he said, putting his hands on each side of her face. "Love," he whispered. "You're mine, and I'd never make you do anything you really didn't want to do. You know that. You are the most precious jewel I've ever found and nothing and no one should make you feel this way. Come here," and he pulled her into his lap and sat, stroking her hair while she cried against his chest and he felt a slow rage build.

How _dare_ those women make his treasure feel bad?

No one fucked with his toy.

He took care of his things.

He would take care of this.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You're going to catch your death of cold like that." He watched her from his spot, leaning against the frozen tree.

Hermione gathered more little mounds of snow near her feet, cupping the fluff and packing it into balls from her perch on a large flat boulder. "I'm quite warm, thank you," she hummed softly.

And she was. She'd made sure to cast warming charms on her and on the new furred cloak he'd procured from one of the few surviving trade routes listed in the documents he'd received recently. His witch had helped him experiment with some different and extremely formal sounding techniques for information fishing that she'd apparently used before everything went south with the Trace issue that separated her group. He was pleasantly surprised at how well it worked on their tests and, in addition to the coded message he was finally able to send south for information about his mother's location, he'd requested a few other things to reward and treat his witch. Now they were waiting, biding their time for a few final bits of information, and then they could solidify a plan to extract her.

He should have been looking more into the staff, into the stagnation of Zabini's search for the rebels and his utter failure to find their base, but it was a nice day and his witch wanted to walk outside; more importantly, his witch wanted to have a walk outside _with him_ and he would continue to see that she wanted for nothing. Besides, requests like these were easy; a stroll through the woods, a picnic when it warmed again, a dance, any of those drudges, those old co-workers of hers that he caught shooting her ill looks now and again, disposed of - _easy_.

So there they were, paused in their walk with her making a tiny arsenal of not so tiny snowballs.

"I hope you're not planning on throwing those at anyone," he said finally, pushing off from the tree and picking a careful path through the snow to stand near the impressive pile.

"Mmm," she said with a devious lilt to even that simple noise, "and whom would I throw it at all the way out here? My master? That would be rather ill advised, wouldn't it? I hear tell he's not a fan of such frolicking and nonsense. He's evil, or so people tell me."

Draco crouched next to her and swept one of her riotous curls out of her face, tucked it back under the fuzzy cap that did little for her warmth and wonders for simply looking funny and - if he were to admit such a thing - adorable. He made a face she couldn't see when she addressed him as she did, even if she meant it to be playful. "We're more than that, you know."

His suddenly serious, soft, yet insistent, tone drew her gaze up and she saw him fixing her with that intense stare of his. "What?"

"You're not just a mistress," he said and removed a glove so he could cup her face skin to skin. He grinned when he felt warm air from her modified spell running across his knuckles.

She smirked and looked back down to the big ball of snow in her hands. "You've said that before..."

"And I meant it then as well."

Hermione shrugged and laughed a little in a sad kind of way. "What are we then really, Draco? You said it yourself, you can't announce me to the world... I can't be anything to you... not really..."

He gently plucked the snowball from her and covered her hands with his, rubbing his thumbs over her damp gloves. "Not yet," he put emphasis on the last bit. His eyes took on an odd light as he ran his gaze down over her features. "You won't have to hide forever Granger," he said quietly and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She sighed and leaned into him, lids fluttering shut against the press of his lips. Hermione snaked her arms around his waist, beneath the folds of his cloak, and hid her face against his neck. It was easy to forget what they were out here, far from the castle and traces of the rebels. There was no Blaise Zabini to remind her of her past horrors and failures, there was no Theodore Nott to show her the grim present, there was no carefree Marie fluttering about, or even Nott's girl, pleased with her own destruction, bringing the thoughts of their reality to the surface. When she walked these woods and saw familiar paths that she knew would take her back to a meeting point here or there, she thought of her spot on the other side and very little aside from a hollow ache at having abandoned it. There was a part of her, deeply seated in her gut that willed her to take the wand she'd been given and strike her captor down then flee to the edge of the world where the darkness couldn't reach her anymore; that part of her, however, was dying out, if it wasn't already snuffed completely.

It had been cooling for some time now, dropping drastically with every outpost that was destroyed or every one of her friends she'd seen slaughtered in front of her or stolen away for _other_ things. She'd followed all of their traces, their tracks, as best she could out in that world by herself, silently wondering why nobody ever came looking for her before she caught word of these supposedly established fronts and bases. Never once in the months she'd helped groups and traveled with some had she ever bumped into anyone looking for _her;_ it was always the same, just stumble upon them, they scatter once found, and she would have to run and keep up again; no one sought her out, the new Undesirable Number One. No one, it seemed, cared about her. Her hope, her faith had been dwindling for what seemed like ages and the day she woke up and realized that there _was no_ edge of the world anymore, no true escape into another region or another country, not even the Muggle world, that was the day she'd made the leap from fighting for her cause and fighting for her life. The world had changed around her already and she'd been so immersed in her losing battle that she hadn't even known. If she were to think about it, she had been faltering for a long time and after running into Malfoy, well, perhaps he was just a convenient excuse to leave them behind for good.

Maybe that was how it started, but it wasn't just that anymore then was it?

Hermione felt his own arms tighten around her and smiled when she heard him inhale the mingling scents of bath soaps and lotions he'd started supplying for her, loosing a contented rumble against her hair.

Lord Draco Malfoy: aggressive, brutal, brilliant, impossible, and arrogant - also, the only person who hadn't expected her to be anything _but _Hermione Granger in this dark circus of a world.

She wasn't a drudge, she wasn't _actually_ a whore, and apparently she was no longer 'just a mistress'. What that left her as to him, she wasn't entirely sure and wouldn't go about placing juvenile labels on their relationship otherwise, but what she _did_ know, was that she was the most free when she was with him.

And gods did she long to be free.

"...You seemed to have mentioned that at least once before as well," she said after ages of just resting there, cradled in the arms of her lover - or whatever he was.

Draco chuckled, nodded, and moved away enough to see her face again. "I meant that too." He hesitated, fussed with and moved some of her curls around again, preparing himself for the next few moments. She seemed to sense something peculiar in his behavior with the way she was eying him and he cleared his throat. "It'll be a long time before I can see you moving freely," he admitted and her shoulders slumped, "but when I do, it _will _be first hand."

The witch was confused at first and wanted to ask, but then he'd slipped her grip free from his waist and was pushing something into her hands, a small velvety box-shaped something.

He watched her expectantly in that same way he'd done the night he'd given her her own wand, he watched her face try to contain the budding excitement at the piece of jewelry he had selected, had fashioned, just for her; he watched, and once again, he was not disappointed.

. . . . . . . . . .

When Theodore Nott entered the library Helen Evans was pulling books off the shelves, apparently searching for something - anything - to read. She was fussing, boosting herself up to the higher shelves with a rickety little step stool to gather more titles to go through, before landing back on her own two feet and starting in on a series of unhappy mutters at her new haul.

She didn't turn until she heard his level voice saying, "Lord Malfoy should be more careful with you."

She faced him, arms tightening around her novels, she forced a mask of composure she obviously didn't feel and said, "I don't understand, Master Nott."

"Letting you out like this."

"I didn't realize I was a prisoner," she said, trying to keep her eyes on his face rather than searching for the escape behind him.

He'd seen that bravado on so many faces and found he particularly enjoyed it on hers.

"Mmm. It's a dangerous world, Miss Evans, and people are so very fragile." He walked towards her and, standing next to her began to idly pull books off the high shelves, read their titles, then put them back. He noticed she had a new necklace on; that certainly hadn't taken Malfoy long. He eyed the jeweled otter and wondered why that tickled something in the back of his brain.

Well, he'd trust that all the odd pieces of information that seemed to coalesce around Miss Helen Evans would form an understandable pattern eventually. For now, no matter what was going on with her, Malfoy was still too powerful for him to just yank the man's mistress in for questioning.

"I've made a bit of a study on how fragile people are, you know," Nott continued on, "and also how resilient they can be. It's a fascinating paradox, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry, Master Nott," she murmured, shifting her weight toward the familiar press of books behind her. "I don't really follow you." Her eyes flickered to the exit and back – he was still perusing texts.

"Maybe some day I'll be able to explain more fully," he shrugged. "I miss your accent, by the way."

She stiffened and he smiled. "As I was saying, it's so easy to hurt people. You can hurt them with just a word or two. Cruelty isn't always physical, is it Miss Evans?"

"No," she whispered. Hermione hugged the ratty books to her breast, resisting the urge to grasp at the trinket around her neck for some sense of comfort or security instead.

"I'm sure you, of all people, would never judge what other consensual adults do in the privacy of their own bedroom, Miss Evans. I'm sure I noticed how very much you didn't care for Master Zabini's judgment of your situation and I can't imagine you'd be a hypocrite enough to do the same to another woman." He paused and looked at her. "I'm sorry, I forget, sometimes, how poor your education was. Do you need to me to explain what 'hypocrite' means?"

"No, Master Nott," she said, looking down now, eyes on the floor, fingers digging into the novels. His voice was cool and calm, but the man radiated something else entirely. That something else had every hair on her neck standing straight and her skin prickling with goosebumps.

"As I said, Malfoy should take better care of you," he said, watching her try not to step backwards, further into the shelves. "If he treasured you, I'm sure he wouldn't let you risk yourself like this." He pulled another book off a shelf and flipped through the pages. "For example, I treasure my own mistress. Never thought I'd find a woman so well suited to me and I plan to ensure nothing and no one ever hurts her by so much as a sidelong glance."

"That's very devoted of you," Hermione choked out around her heart that'd suddenly found itself lodged in her throat.

"Except me, of course," he added and watched the woman in front of him make a subtle, probably unconscious, contemptuous grimace. People really should be more careful about learning to control their tells, he thought, keeping his own contempt hidden.

"If someone else were to hurt her," he continued, "I would ensure that pain was visited back on them tenfold. It might take some time for the appropriate circumstances to present themselves but I'm a patient man, Miss Evans. Eventually the person who upset my pet and I would have a private meeting and that person would very much regret their cruelty to her." He paused, taking in the way she'd begun to tremble at his proximity. "Do we understand one another?"

Hermione nodded quickly without looking up.

"You might enjoy this one," he handed her the book in his hand. _'Three's Company'_ and watched her read the blurb. _'When Orion and Edward realize they love the same woman they decide cooperation is better than competition_.' Her eyes skimmed over the text far too quickly for the barely literate woman she had claimed to be the first time he questioned her and he filed that away as yet another thing to explore in greater depth someday.

Allowing himself another once over of the commander's mistress, he finally offered her his most cordial smile. It was even and polite and the epitome of perfection as far as Pureblood social etiquette was concerned.

She barely suppressed her shudder at what lurked behind that look she didn't even see, yet _felt _sliding over every bare bit of her skin in his presence.

"I'll see you at dinner." He headed for the door. "'Miss Evans'."

. . . . . . . . . .

"We have a problem," Theo pulled the rolls towards himself and stared at the basket. As usual the choice appeared to be doughy or burnt. Baking bread wasn't even difficult; why was this such a constant issue?

"The bread?" Draco Malfoy had eschewed the rolls this evening. His frizzy mistress had one she was carefully cutting the blackened bits off of.

"No," Theo decided to follow Miss Evans' lead and picked out two slightly black rolls and began removing the unacceptable bits. "Well, yes, the bread is a problem but I was speaking more to other issues." One roll neatly trimmed, he turned his attention to the other. "Or, I suppose, I should say we had a problem."

"You've already dealt with it?" Malfoy was helping himself to sliced venison, a dish Theo Nott had grown heartily sick of. Indeed, his displeasure with the limited offerings the kitchen staff served had led to his decision to investigate the supply rooms. "Solved problems are my favorite type, Nott. I suppose that makes you my favorite staff member today."

Nott watched Malfoy send a quick, displeased glance in Zabini's general direction but the man didn't respond. He'd been doing long patrols through the wooded regions, looking for something – presumably the rebels - with no apparent success. Nott hid his smile that Malfoy was turning on his school friend and began buttering first one roll, then the other.

"Some of the local garrison appears to have been siphoning off supplies to sell on the black market in the village." He frowned thoughtfully. "I probably should have let you question the ringleader to determine whether there was any connection to the rebels, Zabini. I'm sorry. I might have overstepped my bounds there."

"Is he no longer available for questioning?" Malfoy sounded amused and Nott smiled as he ripped off a piece of one of the rolls he'd been preparing and fed it to his pet before adding a slice of the game meat to first her plate and then his.

"I'm afraid not. I slit his throat, mixed the blood in with some of the wretched porridge they've been serving us at breakfast, and made the rest of the participants in the smuggling ring eat it while I explained to them the wide variety of penalties I might choose to apply in retaliation for stealing." He cut a bit of meat and held the fork out in front of his pet's mouth and watched as she delicately ate the food he offered her before helping himself as well.

"Did you have to be quite so dramatic?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"I've found one good, visually strong death prevents tedious follow up," Nott shrugged. "Plus, it was fun. And, of course, I think we can expect the quality of our meals to improve now that the best things aren't being skimmed off."

Miss Evans had stopped eating and she and that Marie girl exchanged tight, fear-filled glances. Nott looked at the bushy-haired woman and, almost involuntarily, licked his lips, a gesture she saw and one that made her flinch. "Something wrong with your dinner, Miss Evans?" he asked courteously.

"No, Master Nott," she said quickly, shrinking back into her seat.

"Then you should eat," he said. "Especially after the work I went to in order to ensure that you – that all of us - got the best food available."

She blanched but, he was pleased to see, obediently began cutting up her dinner and eating it. Trainable, then.

Nott narrowed his eyes in thought as he held another bite out to the placid girl sitting at his side. "They can't get weapons, naturally; the Trace takes care of that, but I wonder what else the locals have been quietly making off with." He looked over at Zabini. "If you'd be so good as to find any sort of rebel outpost in all your treks through the woods perhaps we'll find all sorts of things that have mysteriously gone missing. Or are you out there doing some kind of bird watching. I'd never have pegged you as a naturalist, Zabini."

"There's a lot of ground to cover," Zabini said, flatly.

"Still," Malfoy piped up, "I would have expected some progress by now."

"I feel," Zabini said, drinking what to Nott's eyes appeared to be a pain potion, "I am making considerable progress."

"Well," Malfoy snapped, "I have to disagree with you. You aren't accomplishing shite, Zabini."

"I'm sorry to be such a disappointment," Zabini muttered. "We can't all just go about indiscriminately slaughtering people."

"It was hardly indiscriminate," Nott objected. He smiled dreamily. "He begged so beautifully, too. Not many soldiers do, you know. You get lots of 'kill me you bastard' but this one, he broke down and sobbed at my feet after I carved his own, broken, loyalty oath into his back, one shallow cut at a time. Made his men watch. Three of them threw up before I even slit his throat." He shook his head as though to clear the thoughts away and took a bite of his roll. "Still, enough shop talk." His gaze made its way around the table, focusing on his dining company each in turn, from his sweet pet – who almost seemed disappointed to have the tales of his exploits cut short – all the way to the lesser ladies of the castle. A pleasant look lightened his features and he turned to Zabini's unkempt mess. "Miss Marie, have you read any interesting books lately?"

The girl fumbled her fork at the question.

. . . . . . . . . .

Nott carefully pulled the slip of paper out of the drop point and, unfurling it, read it.

_n nos. you have to get me out of hear. please._

Hmm. Now, that was interesting. What did he want to do about that? Two birds with one stone, mayhap?

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N**_** – **__W__h__atever your winter __h__oli__d__ay o__f__ c__h__oice is, may it be a won__d__er__f__ul one. _

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go; 'Lady of the Lake' and 'After the Sea' by Colubrina, plus the drabbles we both do. We both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and lechegomyeggo _

_Thank you to all our readers and reviewers. Most especially: pepperleaves, cocis, pagyn, Dawnaven, LR Earl, Delancey654, swagatamalfoy, Artemisgodess, Guest, ladymagna1100, FaeBreeze, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Calimocho, Grovek26, Brightki, LadiePhoenix007, qiana, moria._

_Lots of Nott in this one, that charming favorite, and, as always, we'd love to hear your thoughts._


	18. 17 - Questioning, Plotting, Playing

When Marie woke she was in a cage, an actual cage. She opened her mouth to ask what was happening and realized she couldn't speak, couldn't make a peep, no sound, _nothing_.

"I think," Master Nott drawled from across the room, "that our guest is awake."

Marie looked about frantically. She guessed she was in Master Nott's suite. Much like Master Zabini's there was a desk and a couch and a bed, though the room was much larger and Master Nott has requisitioned rugs, draperies and piles of pillows that were strewn in front of the fireplace. It was, she thought with horror, cozy.

There was also the small matter of the woman chained to the wall.

Marie recognized Master Nott's mistress, who was naked but for… Marie struggled to make sense of the things the woman was draped in and finally gave up. She was also bruised, far more bruised than Marie had realized before, even given the endlessly changing pattern of splotches and handprints that peeked from the edges of the woman's dresses at dinner. She looked half-asleep, propping herself against the stones in what Marie assumed was hopeless resignation because it couldn't possibly be the relaxed post-coital languor it looked like.

"Ah," the man was continuing. "You've realized you can't make a sound. Sometimes, I've found, it's easier to conduct an interrogation when the person I'm questioning can't disturb people around him. Or her, as the case may be." He didn't turn to acknowledge the other woman in the room, just inclined his head slightly towards the wall almost pleasantly.

Marie tried to scoot back in her confined space as far as she could, away from the man squatting down to peer at her through the wire mesh. He was holding out a note and – oh dear gods preserve her – it was her note, one she'd left in a drop.

"N knows," the man read. "You have to get me out of here. Please." He paused and looked at her. "Your spelling is terrible and your handwriting needs work. Penmanship is an art, Marie. You should take pride in the way you present your written words. This is slovenly, not to mention, of course, that minor problem that you appear to be a mole for the rebellion, one my last little mole didn't know about. One," he smiled at her, a terrible, terrifying, toothy grin, "claiming to be illiterate."

Marie began to cry, horrible, silent tears that streamed down her face.

"I would beat you just for this handwriting but, alas, I can't leave any marks on you as it wouldn't do for Master Zabini to know about our little chat, now would it?" Nott smiled again and Marie discovered she could flatten herself even further against the back of her cage, a discovery that proved fruitless as the man casually unlatched the door, hauled her out by her collar and dumped her in front of the fire. "I'm going to start with a demonstration of how very much I can hurt you," Nott said, and she realized she was immobilized now as well as silenced when she tried to run to the door. "Then," he continued, humouring her with an explanation, expectations of sorts, "once you understand the nature of our relationship, I'm going to ask you a series of questions. It would be in your best interest to answer them accurately, succinctly, and respectfully. It's a pity, as I said, that I can't enjoy watching your skin change colors underneath my hands, can't cut into you. I find using magic to question people, as efficient as it is, takes a lot of the pleasure out of the work and a man should enjoy his job, don't you think, Marie?"

She shuddered in front of the fire, looking down at her hands as they lay in her lap. Then, she was in agony and terror. Everything in the world condensed to pain and fear, nothing but fear and pain and she didn't know who she was, didn't know where she was, couldn't even cry out. Then, as quickly as it had started, after an eternity had passed, the pain stopped. She realized, dimly, that she'd toppled over, still unable to move, lying now with her face pressed into a pillow staring into the fire. Someone's hand hauled her back to a seated position, using her hair to pull her up, and some kind of magic released and she realized she could move and speak again; could move in theory, anyway. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to move again.

"You work for the resistance," Master Nott asked, and she was nodding.

She'd do anything to make sure he didn't hurt her like that again. There was no hope. Maybe if she were lucky he'd just kill her. After the horrific sensation of every one of her nerve endings coming alive, just in time for the feeling he invoked of her skin trying to flay itself from her body, she'd consider that alternative being very, very lucky.

"You send messages to them?" And she nodded again.

"And the other moles in the castle, they don't know about you?"

She shook her head. She was the important one. Had been the important one. She let people in, she'd destroyed the…

"You destroyed the floo in the great hall?"

Another nod.

"What's Zabini up to?"

"I don't know," she whimpered. "looking for the base, I think."

A sudden burst of pain again.

"I do think I asked you to be respectful. If 'Master Nott' is too difficult to voice at the moment you may settle for 'Sir.'"

She gasped and tried to remain upright. "I don't know, sir," she finally choked out. Her limbs trembled and jerked spasmodically but she tried to remain still, as still as possible, lest she anger the man hovering at her back.

"You don't read his papers?" Nott asked, casually, and she could feel his fingers trailing down her arm and she wanted to cringe away but didn't dare.

"I do, sir," she said, almost choking on the tears and snot that were running into her mouth, that she didn't risk wiping away. "But there's nothing. He checks drops, records messages. He hasn't found anything."

"Do you know where the base is?" Nott asked and she could hear his voice become slightly tense and she was afraid, so afraid, because she didn't. No one in the castle did; it was policy that no one who came into regular contact with the Dark Lord's army could know anything.

"I don't," she said, then gasped out, "Sir. I don't know sir. I'm so sorry. I don't know, please don't hurt me. Please don't – "

He cut her off. "Well, it was worth asking though it was probably too much to hope for that they'd be sloppy enough to let an idiot like you know anything."

Marie had never been so grateful to be dismissed as stupid, never been so thankful to be believed.

"Do you know anything about Hermione Granger?"

"Who, sir?" she asked, genuinely confused and the man sighed again.

"I could obliviate you, my dear, but I want you to remember this little conversation. I want you to recall I can do this to you again anytime I want to; next time you want to leave a message for your little compatriots I suggest you rethink that idea. Since I can't have you running to Zabini for sympathy, however, _abscondisti verba_."

Marie could feel the geas settle along her and realized she'd been bound from speaking about this whole meeting. She also realized she'd never _ever_ go near another drop point, not while this man was in the castle. He saw too much, knew too much.

"Oh," the man added, "and you need to be nicer to my little pet. You hurt her feelings and I don't like people hurting her feelings. I'm the only one allowed to hurt her in any way. Do we understand each other?"

Marie nodded frantically.

"Good. Then get out." Master Nott rose and offered her his arm and, shuddering, she took it as he helped her to her feet and walked her, like a great lady, to the door. He held the door for her and she slipped out, and, as soon as the door shut behind her, ran, stumbling, down the hall to the safety of Master Zabini's rooms.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was leaning on the balcony, smiling lightly while she twirled her new pendant between her fingers.

_"Granger!"_

The familiar voice of her lover drifted through the open doors and she answered him with a soft, "Out here."

The blonde appeared shortly after with that same too serious look on his face whenever she was in the open. "Granger! I thought I told you to be careful."

And she knew he was looking around, searching the landscape that she was so exposed to out here, this same entry point the rebels decided to launch a boulder through the first day he'd arrived. "Draco," she said calmly, reaching her free hand behind her and smiled more widely when she felt him take it, "I am being careful. The balcony is shielded...camouflaged to appear empty. _And_, it's cozy and warm."

Draco's brow furrowed and he did finally notice that it was just as warm as the suite, maybe actually a bit warmer. "You've been busy," he murmured, settling into place behind her, bracing his hands on either side of her on the railing.

He admired her spell work, always had, and it was times like this that he wondered - just a little - about if he should leave her so unattended with her magic. She was rusty, he knew that, in no shape to truly battle at length, but she was certainly more than competent if they ever came to blows. After each nervous day, though, he would just find her doing idle things, seemingly content with levitating objects, adding charms to his clothing or glamours and other nonsensical touches to their room that made it more and more _their_ _room _every day. Since he'd given her the pendant, she'd been acting more wistful than anything and while she didn't seem unhappy - quite the opposite, actually - it concerned him for several reasons. He tried to tell himself that he shouldn't be concerned, that she very willingly belonged to him now and that if she'd wanted to still rid herself of him, she'd have done it and already called the rebellion down on them all...but still.

"Bored is more like it," she said at last and felt him press a kiss to the top of her head then fell into the gentle sway that he began at her back. Hermione sighed and leaned into him, eyes half-lidded and looking over the grounds. "I've missed this."

"This?" he questioned softly, moving his hands to guide her hips in their slight dance and illustrate his meaning, "I don't recall that we've ever done _this_ before."

Hermione shook her head, tugged his arms to wrap around her and left her hands resting over his. "Seeing the snow like this, over all the hills and trees, the mountains...I've missed it. Just being able to stand here idle and look at it all. No running for my life in old, sodden clothing, and knocking on the select few doors willing to open themselves to a lowly drudge. This," she said again with that wistful tone, "reminds me of whenever I would have a few moments to myself between essays and would just sit by the window and watch everything, everyone. It was always so peaceful then."

They typically avoided talk of _those times - _it was a sensitive subject after all - but he didn't protest against it and so she relaxed more in his arms. These moments were his favorite; moments where he could just enjoy her being warm and solid and all his. He'd spent years watching, waiting, thinking of ways he could have her, his fiery witch, without penalty but if not his father, then the Dark Lord would most assuredly have punished him even then for taking her – though at the end of the day, she'd _always_ been his. Draco had made sure that the other blokes that showed any keen interest in her were aggressively dissuaded. Everyone except for the bloody Weasel had let her be. Good thing he'd been taken care of in that chaos mess of battle at the school, otherwise he might still actually have someone to compete with, might have to remove a piece from the board.

He finally followed her gaze out to the serene white landscape, looking to see what she saw. "I forget sometimes that you were locked away, all alone, in that tower," he drawled against her ear and teased, "shut away with your books like one of those princesses in your horrid love stories while everyone _frolicked_ and _had fun_." He gave her a playful scowl at the thought of merriment.

"Hardly," she snorted, graciously not pointing out that he was the one that brought her most of those 'horrid' stories. "More like doing everyone's homework while you all were posturing like fools and measuring the size of your wands against one another."

"I'll have you know," he scoffed, "there was no 'against one another' of anything, most definitely not our wands, wooden or otherwise." His witch laughed and they fell into a comfortable quiet again, still swaying in step with each other.

After a long, nearly uncomfortable stretch of silence, his curiosity got the better of him. "Do you miss them?"

"Who?"

He nodded towards the forest. "Your friends."

"_Those_ are not my friends," she said sharply with no small hint of bitterness and tensed in his hold, "those people...they're just rabble, throwing rocks at a fortress."

"I seem to recall those rocks being very effective at nearly damaging something of mine," he kept his tone light but watched her stern expression carefully before placing a kiss over her previously wounded shoulder.

"Friends don't leave friends alone to die at the hand of the enemy," she said quietly to herself as much as to him.

Draco saw a strange look cross her features but she never stopped looking out towards the mountains, even if she wasn't even truly looking at them anymore. He blinked down in surprise when he felt her fingers lacing through his and her pulling his arms more tightly around her. He watched her jawline, watched it tense and her teeth grind, that little bob of her throat as she swallowed around a thought or a memory, and he found himself both panicked and angry at her surefire sign of tears.

Words of reassurance started to slip out, "Whatever happened Granger, it-"

"They're not my friends," she cut him off, tone still bitter, now with something elsein the mix. "My friends are dead. There's nothing out there for me anymore."

As soon as he felt that first trickle against his cheek, he turned her, carefully, in his arms. She automatically tucked her face against his neck and looped her arms around him. These tears were silent ones. Her shoulders and chest barely moved and were certainly nothing close to the sobs she'd supplied after he'd returned from his meeting with Goyle, but he still felt them dampening his collar, so he just held her. Draco combed his fingers through her curls, taking his turn again to stare out at the countryside, though his was much less fond than hers.

"You're right," he spoke against her hair, "there's nothing out there for you...so stay with me, Hermione." He'd given her that token, that symbol, but she hadn't given him a real answer to the unspoken question of it all. He couldn't give her anything more obvious, not right now with the mess of their 'government' and the others watching without them getting too suspicious or too interested, but they both had understood.

She pulled her face away from his neck, looking up and searching his gaze for something. She brushed his bangs from his eyes, ran a hand over his days old stubble that she was actually starting to enjoy, and tilted her head. "Say it again."

"Stay with me."

"No," she said softly in an almost fragile whisper, "not that, the other part. My _name_. Say my name again."

Draco's surprise at the request was evident but it quickly morphed into a smile, a rare, _real_ smile, for her. He leaned in, brushed his lips over hers in a tickling touch, and mumbled against them, "Hermione-" he kissed her once, twice, three times with playful pecks that had her grinning, "-stay with me."

She nodded, melting into his embrace and loosing soft contented sighs into each sweet kiss. It was so seldom she heard him say it, usually only at his most sincere or most unguarded – both rare occasions - and she loved it every time he did. To hear the way it tumbled free, unrestrained by his usual walls and binds, slipping past his careful masks, it was one of her favorite things.

_"_Yes_,_" she murmured against his lips, "_yes_, Draco."

. . . . . . . . .

Zabini stormed in from the passageway and immediately took to setting up his work space. Another ten wands to try and get through tonight, he didn't have time for this bullshite discussion again – he had _work_ to do.

The tall, scarred man followed the Italian into one of the less used side rooms. "I just think you're being a little harsh," Neville said, part of the ongoing argument that he and Blaise Zabini had been having since Zabini had first warned him about Hermione. "You don't know how much she's had to," he stopped, shook his head, "... look. When we left Hogwarts it was bad, _really_ bad. There were so many people who were nearly dead and we had to carry them out, go into hiding. But the day the Trace started... we couldn't even use magic to get people out. Ginny was still in and out of sleep so deep it was nearly a coma. Hermione fled into the woods with just her wand, Zabini. It was-" Neville shook his head again. "I'm sure she thought we all died."

Zabini froze in the midst of his sorting of wands and looked at the other man, his eyes even colder than they had been a moment earlier. He turned fully away from the bench now, his voice starting with deadly calm, quavering from the restraint he tried to employ and, failing that, rose angrily to a venomous snarl, "You're telling me that she not only fled the battle, left the rest of you _able bodied_ idiots to your fates, but she knowingly left her comatose best friend, left _**GINNY**_, behind to die?"

"It wasn't like that," Neville protested, stammering a bit like the uneasy boy he used to be for just a moment. "She..."

"She saved herself," Zabini finished for him acerbically. "She ran off and she saved herself." Blaise stretched to his full height menacingly. It was a rare thing that he used his physical stature to intimidate, such was not his area of expertise; as a strategist, he typically watched and figured and mulled – there was an awful lot of mulling – he didn't brandish his physical traits nearly as much as Malfoy. This, however, this stupid and useless conversation about an equally stupid and useless witch had his hackles raised and murder in his eyes. "And then she-"

"And _then_," Neville interrupted, remembering himself. He, too, rose to his full height, shoulders back, chest out, coming eye to eye with the Italian who was simmering in his rage now. "She made her way here and she was broken, Zabini. People helped her on the way here, at least a little, but she was almost totally on her own. _We_ abandoned _her_." The truth sounded harsher in the cold air between them than it did in just his mind. "I thought," he swallowed around the words, "I thought she could survive without real help and the brutal reality was there were so many people who couldn't - people who were injured, people who were traumatized - that I had to triage." There was a pause and then Neville said again, "I had to, for the good of us all. And she paid the price for it. Just... have a little compassion."

"Compassion," he spat, "_Compassion!_ She ran off and left Ginny to _**die**_." Zabini glared, the whites of his teeth flashing maliciously in their dim lighting. "She KNEW she was there and ran off anyway. Paint all the tragic stories that you want, Longbottom, but Granger LEFT. You made it out though, didn't you? You were just as surprised by the Snatchers as she, yet you made it and you made it with my bleedin' unconscious fiancée on your shoulder!"

"It wasn't just like that! I've told you before, it wasn't nearly that simple!" Neville grit out in exasperation, this was how it always circled around, each and every time. He wasn't even quite sure why he kept trying to convince the man Hermione was still worth saving. Maybe it was a tug on his own conscience; it could've been a lot of things. "There was more than just these things in the mix! A lot of factors! The fact of the matter is-"

"Fact?" Blaise had begun to pace away, also tired of this endless loop of an argument, but that word caused him to round on the man in an instant. "Facts. Fine then. Let us stick to the 'facts'. Fact one, they were best bloody friends, thick as thieves in those last couple of years. Fact two, Ginny would've done anything for her and _she_ acted like it was all mutual. Fact fucking _three_, when it came down to it, she left Ginny to DIE. If their positions were reversed," his eyes flickered, the image of how his beauty had looked with that blade to her neck, warning him off taking action and exposing himself with just a secret smile, "if they'd been reversed…she would've been so lucky as to have Ginny watching over her."

There was a silence between them for a long, damning moment.

Truth. Facts. Wishful thinking. Whatever those things truly were that the man spat into the air, they stirred the waters of doubt in Neville's head once again; it was most unwelcome.

Then, after that long time, Blaise's much more controlled, but no less furious, question came. "And she's blamed _me_ anyway, hasn't she?"

"I don't know," Neville replied honestly. "Maybe. Probably. She had things to say about how you'd let her be hurt, about how her condition was your fault. About how if you'd done what you'd promised she would never have been hurt in the first place, that we wouldn't have been trying so desperately to..."

"That fucking cunt blames me when she ran off," Zabini said, his voice wholly level, wholly dangerous, "and you want me to be _compassionate_?"

"Who are you talking about?"

Both men spun to see Ginny in the archway.

"No one, my flower," Zabini said in a soothing tone just as Neville said, "Hermione."

"Hermione? Hermione's alive?" Ginny looked from one to the other searching for confirmation and when their expressions gave it she turned first to Neville. "Why didn't you tell me? She's my..."

"Because you'd want to see her," Neville said.

"Damn right I do," Ginny snapped. She entered the rest of the way into Zabini's workspace, the strength in her step and her voice having come leaps and bounds since his arrival.

"And you can't," he continued.

"_Excuse_ me?" Ginny narrowed her eyes and glared at the man.

"It's policy," Neville said, his voice utterly unyielding. "No one who works in the castle can know where we are or names of anyone out here. No one."

"He does," Ginny pointed at Zabini.

"And that gives me fucking nightmares," Neville said, "and he's probably the least likely person to end up tortured in that place." He rubbed his brow and kept on a bit pleadingly, "Ginny, it's to protect her. The Dark Lord's intelligence agents - they're GOOD. And relentless. If Nott had the slightest hint Hermione knew WE were out here, he'd start questioning her and he wouldn't stop until he knew everything she could reveal."

"He probably wouldn't stop then," Zabini muttered, earning him a stern look from his witch that told him that she hadn't even gotten to _him_ yet. He clamped his mouth shut for the time being.

"Not being worth questioning is a gift, Ginny. You see her, she'll want to know where you've been, where you're staying. And she'll give all of that away because Nott won't let her not."

"She'd give it away anyway," Zabini said, giving Neville another long look.

"And what does that mean, Blaise," Ginny turned to glare at him now.

"She's with Malfoy," Blaise explained, "As in, they're a couple." At her still scathing look, he resisted illustrating rather crudely with his hands to further punctuate the point, but only just so.

Ginny shook her head. "Not possible."

"Ginny," he protested, "I see them. Fuck, I HEAR them, too fucking often."

"Not possible," she said again then, at his look, "Oh, she may be sleeping with him. She may be hanging on his every last word. But she's just surviving, Blaise. It's not real, she wouldn't really..."

"Sell out her side?" Blaise tried to keep from raising his voice. "But that's exactly what she's done, Gin. She led him to her meeting point."

The witch eyed him carefully, seeing the confidence in each of his words. "So what?" Ginny said finally, turning back to Neville. "She didn't have any real information, right? No names, no valuable locations?"

Neville nodded. "That's true."

"Are you telling me she didn't know that?" she started, the volume in her ragged voice building with each syllable she spoke to paint her friend's defense. "That she didn't know anything she told him had no real value? That she didn't know she could buy his trust with that coin? That worthless coin?"

She spun back to Blaise and he stepped back. He hadn't seen that fire - that rage - in her eyes since he'd discovered she was alive; it was brilliant. It would've been more so if it hadn't have been zeroed in on him in that moment.

"How dare you judge her Blaise Zabini? Neville carried me here, took care of me, kept me safe. I've had an army. I've had YOU, fighting from a position of power for me, all this time. Hermione, she's had no one. No. One. She thinks she's alone, that everyone is dead, and she's doing what she can to hang on for _just_ another day, never knowing if it's her last in a world that hated her before and hates her MORE, after. And you have the nerve to stand there and _**judge**_ her for that?" She took a deep breath, fists clenched and shaking at her sides. "What if it had been me, Blaise? What if you'd found me living in that castle? Sleeping with the local garrison to survive another day? Would you have stood there and condemned me? _Would you?_"

Of the three of them that stood in that room, she was the most unassuming at first glance. She was at least a full head shorter than the others, daintier as well, of course. The hot wave of her, the indignation of the question about her friend's allegiance, though, _that_ preceded her and what she lacked in size, she made up for in sheer presence.

Ginny advanced on the dark man and he took another step backwards. "I've never asked what you had to do to survive, Blaise. Never. But if I had to guess, I'd guess you've gotten more than a bit of blood on your hands too. How _dare_ you judge her?" She spun back to Neville. "Well, she's not alone. She has me. And you will arrange a meeting or I'll just start walking towards that castle."

Neville clenched his jaw, tested her bluff with his stony appearance, but as soon as she quirked one of those fine red eyebrows and challenged him back, he gave her a sharp nod.

Blaise found himself not-quite-cowering from the wash of emotion that only this woman had ever been able to make him feel. This was one of the reasons that he'd encouraged the rebellion's leader to keep Hermione's continued existence in the keep across the way a secret. He knew, as sure as he'd roared about this fierce witch protecting her own, this would be the way of things.

Meeting Longbottom's reluctant stare with one of his own, we knew also that, all things considered, he'd gotten off lightly; for the moment anyhow.

. . . . . . . . . .

Another night deTracing wands, followed by massive headaches and some time spent in the arms of his witch. He'd tried – oh, how he'd tried – to talk her out of meeting with Hermione but at last he'd given in to her, and she'd known he would from the start.

Just… be patient. He'd said. It has to be safe. You have to be safe. She'd made grouchy noises at that but finally agreed she'd wait until he and Neville could set up a safe rendezvous, that she wouldn't just start walking.

After that incredibly stressful discussion, Zabini cut his normal decoy patrol route a little short that evening and made his way to his chambers.

Marie should be asleep by now, she usually was, even without the tea, and he could fall into bed and get a scant few hours of rest before he got up and did it all over again, more deTracing, more diverting Malfoy, more headaches. As soon as he opened the door to his room, though, he knew something was amiss. The fire, usually barely a light in the hearth by now was still roaring and blasting the small room with heat. His eyes automatically searched for her in her usual spots, either by the fire or on her couch cuddled up underneath one of his throws, neither spot housed her. He blinked, fuzzy headed from the pain potions warring against the hard pounding of his head and opened his mouth to call for her when he realized the big lump of blankets and pillows atop his bed was not, in fact, the mess that he'd left and actually the girl in question.

His normally cool composure cracked at seeing her there. He was tired and cranky and she wasMOST blatantly breaking the rules. "Marie!" he barked gruffly and the woman shot upright.

Blaise was actually taken aback by the shrill scream that escaped her at his presence - apparently she hadn't been asleep at all, just off in a daze and hadn't realized he'd returned.

Marie turned bloodshot eyes and a red splotchy face towards the door, towards his voice, and those eyes rounded in terror. The girl very nearly leapt from the bed and she was visibly trembling. "Sorry!" she flinched and added, "sir! _Master Zabini_, sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." She was muttering to herself as she cleared away the sheets she'd been curled up in, the sheets that smelled so much like him. She'd only meant to lie there a few minutes after she returned from... Marie shuddered and started apologizing again, "Sorry sir, I'm sorry, I'll change the sheets. I know, never the bed."

He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at, but he knew it wasn't the normal nice girl that puttered about doing the minor tasks he left her before sitting around with Granger for story time. This girl, thisstuttering, shaking, nearly hyperventilating girl, was the product of something foul and more than just a little upsetting. His earlier anger at finally finding the woman in his bed dissipated and was replaced by a growing curiosity and concern. "Marie," he said and approached her, but she just kept mumbling to herself, shaking her head, gathering the sheets to discard them, "_Marie!_" Zabini called her name loudly and clearly again, touched a hand to her shoulder, and she yelped and flinched away.

Her hands came up to cover her mouth, eyes darting about like she was looking for something, expecting something awful to come from the shrill noise, something from somewhere outside, and then she looked at him again and dissolved into tears. "I'm sorry Master Zabini...sorry...I'll fix it, please sir, just let me change them. I know what you said, never the bed, never on the bed, I'm sorry, please don't have me removed-"

Blaise shook his head, watching his cleaning girl falling to pieces in front of him and even with the ocean rushing through his ears and his thrumming pulse competing with that, he understood that something happened today. Carefully, slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, grimacing when she flinched again but allowed him to touch her and guide her to sit on the edge of the mattress. She looked even more scared when she was seated on the thing and he had to actually speak the permission aloud before she calmed even a little, "It's alright, hey, it's alright. Sit here, I'm not angry. There, that's it..." Marie hiccupped but was still sitting stiffly, tensed on the very edge of the furniture and trying to stifle her tears, mostly the noises it seemed with the way she tried so very hard to muffle the sound.

Zabini knelt before her, glanced around to try and find something to give her to at least try to dry her eyes with and finally came away with one of his ratty, but clean, rags he often used for caring for his wand. "Here," he offered her, pressing the thing into her hands before she'd finally take it, "use this for now. It's not much, but it's better than all that blubbering into your hands, eh?" He'd lightened his tone with the question and the tightness in his shoulders eased at the choked laugh he got for his efforts. Blaise allowed her to calm a bit more, watching her trying to stopper her tears with the sad little rag, before finally asking as neutrally as possible, "What happened?"

She wanted to tell him, oh god did she want to tell him, but Marie felt the press of Master Nott's spell on her; her mouth, her jaw, her tongue, nothing moved or wanted to work in any way that would've resembled speaking about her private meeting with him. She thought again about what had happened, what he knew and what he'd said. Oh, she was such a fool. She shouldn't have been in here sobbing still when Master Zabini returned. Of course he'd ask. Of course he'd want to know! He was the kind one, he was the only kind one among them! Master Nott was an evil, vile, _terrifying_ man and Lord Malfoy, even though he took decent care of-

"Miss Evans!" Marie blurted all of a sudden, eyes huge and wide and round. She couldn't implicate Nott or his girl, she couldn't insinuate it was either of them at all as the cause for her distress. She absolutely _couldn't_ or she was dead. Master Nott would see to it and worry about the consequences later... but Master Zabini, he didn't seem to like Helen that much, maybe she could just distract him enough. She didn't have to give details, she could just distract him so he wouldn't even think about the other. He's not been getting along with Lord Malfoy much lately either, they wouldn't talk...she was sure of it, it would be okay just this once.

"Evans?" Sure enough, the name left Zabini's mouth in a growl. "This-" He motioned to her tear stained face. "-is because of something she did?"

Marie just looked down again, eyes set on a point far off to his side and focused on '_away_'. She gnawed at her lip, unwilling to lie outright about one of the only people she'd felt she truly befriended in this dreary place in ages, but she literally couldn't tell him the truth.

She was a survivor, she had to survive.

She stayed that way, fretting the rag in her hands while she chewed her bottom lip raw and exaggerated her stuttered, tearful breaths until he sat back on his heels and actually tucked some of her matted hair behind her ear.

"Don't pay any mind to Evans," he said at last with clear distaste in his voice, "I've seen women like her before, knew someone just like her who thought she could treat everyone this kind of way."

Miss Evans had never elaborated much on details about Master Zabini and how they knew each other, only that she had. She, herself, had never admitted to her keeper that she'd even been privy to that much information. She was already in so much trouble with Master Nott and if Lord Malfoy ever caught wind of her throwing Helen's name around, pinning his mistress as any kind of bully…well, she wasn't sure who would offer her a more painful demise.

She could amend her words now or continue on with the lie. But then…it wasn't _really_ a lie. Miss Evans _did_ antagonize that girl. She only laughed a little. It wasn't wholly a lie. She thought again about what the fates had to offer. She thought of the people that had gone to meet with the Commander and never returned from his office. She then thought of the people that had met with Master Nott and did return…_how_ they returned.

Marie swallowed, turned her eyes up to look at him from beneath her lashes, then asked without breaking stride, "Wh-what kind of way, sir?"

"Whatever way makes others feel like shite." The girl looked at him in confusion and he sighed and stood again. "Someone who has this 'holier than thou' attitude about everything and feeds off it and how awful it makes everyone else feel about themselves in comparison to her."

"I-I wouldn't say…"

Zabini shook his head and offered her his hand which she took meekly, allowing him to lead her over to her couch. "I've seen people like her do this to others, love. Pretends that she does things for everyone else's own good and doesn't stop to think about what damage she leaves in her wake or the way that she makes anyone else feel. She always knows best," he spat sourly, his focus drifting off for a moment, "and some people are just too nice and forgive her for it. People like..." he paused, shook his head again coming back to himself, "... people like you."

Blaise snatched up one of the blankets she'd been wrapped in when he found her, shook it out a few times and got her settled in her normal spot then tucked her in in as dignified a manner as an adult woman _could _be tucked in.

"Don't pay her any mind Marie," he said again, "people like her aren't long for this world."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was in the middle of levitating furniture when he burst into the room. Normally he gives her some kind of a warning, a head's up to ensure that she wouldn't be caught doing things with magic that she wasn't supposed to even have access to at all; not so much this time. This time, he erupted into the room, barely taking the time to lock and silence the space behind him.

She yelped and lost her concentration and one of their chests crashed to a heap on the stone of the bedroom suite. It could be mended, she thought, though the years she lost off the end of her life at her fright would be harder to come by again. She turned, clutching her chest and breathing heavily to fix him with a glare. "Merlin's beard, Draco! What on earth has gotten into you?!"

"It's come," he ignored her question, walking up to her grinning and holding a small parcel, "it's arrived."

"It?" she questioned irately until she noticed the expression he wore. She glanced down to the package he was holding in his hands and back up to his anticipatory look. A smile split his features and he looked almost like the boyish wizard she remembered at his most mischievous in school. Hermione found herself grinning back and quickly remembered what they'd been waiting all these days, these weeks, for. "You have the location?"

Draco nodded, looping one arm around her and coaxing her hand over his that still held the package to begin leading them in a jovial kind of waltz. "The location. The potions. The keys."

"Keys?" Her head tilted to the side, but her smile never faltered. He was never in such a good mood, but then, the idea that they would finally be ready to extract his mother from the reaching hands of The Dark Lord was exciting. It _was _quite a celebratory event – hence the dancing.

"Portkeys. We'll enter with the Polyjuice potions, switch her with one of their own imperiused and disguised guards, then make our exit with mother with one. We'll get her settled, and return here before anyone is any wiser." Draco watched his witch's face light up at the mention of portkeys and an 'exit' then subsequently fall when he said that they'd be returning to the castle. He slowed their dance step enough so that he could place the parcel on a nearby piece of furniture and resume with his full attentions on the woman in his arms. "Don't worry, Granger. It's only for a bit longer. Once mother is free, it's just a matter of time before I'll be rid of the snake's coils as well and you'll be with me."

Hermione nodded, though she didn't look particularly convinced. The idea of leaving this prison, as palatable as Draco had made it, only to return was weighing heavily on her already.

He leaned in, brushed his lips across her forehead. "I told you I'd take care of you…promised you, didn't I? Just like you'd promised to stay."

She nodded again and it was slightly more confident this time.

"Just stay with me a little longer then, love. I won't let you get hurt… I'd sooner tear apart anyone that touched you than sit idly by and spectate, but if we leave too soon from this place, exit before the spotlight is off of _me_… well, it will be a very short lived future we have together or otherwise."

Hermione sighed, nodded yet again, and tightened her hold on the man before her.

It was a strange thing to depend on someone else, to not be the one with all the answers, but she'd resolved to allow herself to lean on him – at least a little. Draco had been nothing but accommodating… _caring_ in his own way. She no longer doubted his intentions with her; he'd simply bared himself to her one too many times for it to be a mere strategic foothold and anything but his awkwardly charming brand of sincerity. Kindness from a man that had the idea bred out of him was awkward indeed.

"Trust me?" he asked, quietly.

The nervousness in those simple words was obvious and it was that, that strengthened her position even more. She ran her hands over the muscled planes of his back, nestled her head on his shoulder, and replied confidently before they began rehashing the details of their plan, "I do. I trust you, Draco."

. . . . . . . . .

She had on the green gown; that was one of his favorites. She knew it, of course, Theo mused, wore it when she was especially happy and wanted to share that happiness with him. She knew his moods as well as he did, possibly better, adjusted her attitude and demeanor accordingly. "I do like you," he said into the quiet of their room.

She risked a glance up at him, noted his expression, and smiled back before she dropped her eyes again.

"I've had other girls before you, of course," he continued. "Even given my… proclivities I've never had a shortage of volunteers, plus the occasional flat out victim. But you," he sighed as he looked at her, "you are just perfection."

"I'm glad you think so," she whispered and he smiled. Oh, she _was_ in a good mood; she'd been sniffly since her unpleasant encounter with the other two 'ladies' of the castle and he was happy to see her playful again. Apparently she hadn't missed his little admonition to that Marie girl. Good, she was his and it was right for her to know how seriously he took it when people touched or damaged his things.

"Forgetting something?" he asked and she looked up, tipped her head to the side and shrugged. He almost expected her to stick her tongue out at him, her eyes were so crinkled with mischief.

"Am I?" she asked and she managed to trick a laugh out of him.

"I do expect you to address me with respect and an appropriate title," he said, managing to smother his amusement and frown at her. "Wasn't that one of our first lessons?"

She shrugged again. "If you say so."

"I think perhaps it's time for a refresher." The lanky man pulled himself out of the chair he'd been lounging in and walked with an assumed air of casualness to the door and felt himself harden as her smile faltered. "Go select a flogger, my dear. Anything you'd like."

"I…"

"I'm waiting," he said and opened the door. "And I don't like to be kept waiting."

She almost tripped over her skirts as she stood up and stumbled across the room to the drawer he kept his toys in. They'd been here long enough now that, despite only packing his favorites with him – he could justify the freight as work related, after all – he'd managed to accumulate quite a selection. He could see her looking over her options and trying to decide what would please him, what she could get away with. Pick something too lightweight and he might end up annoyed; pick something more substantial and she was only adding to her own pain. When he coughed she rapidly grabbed the one nearest her hand and scurried back to him.

"You left the drawer open," he said as he plucked the leather handle from her grip and she gulped. "Well," he added, "go fix that. And try to be graceful about it."

She hurried back, this time holding her skirts up and walking with as much poise as she could muster without seeming to linger, slid the drawer back into place, and returned to his side. He held his arm out to escort her down the hall and she tentatively put her hand on it.

"I'll fetch you some etiquette books, my dear," he murmured, gliding into the hall and shutting the door behind him. "When I take you south you'll benefit by being able to handle yourself with the snakes at court."

She looked back at the shut door with some longing and then up at him with decided trepidation. He led her down the hall on his arm, swinging the flogger from his other hand. "We spend so much time in our room, don't you think," he said, lightly. "Time to take a little field trip to other areas of the castle."

"But," she whispered, "other people…"

"I know," he said, watching her pallor increase. "But naughty girls who forget their manners shouldn't expect to choose where they get to go."

She looked down again at that and he could feel her hand shaking on his arm. Oh, now, this was _lovely_. He should have thought of this before. He led her, silently to the library and they were almost there before they ran into Malfoy, who almost walked into them, his head down over a fistful of reports that seemed, judging by the expression on his face, to be irritating him.

"Sorry," the man muttered, then caught sight of the flogger in Theodore Nott's hand and looked at the girl trembling on his arm and laughed. "Having a good time, kids?"

"I'm sure I will," Theo said, "and that's what matters, after all." Draco Malfoy laughed again.

"You've been doing great work, lately. Glad to see you're taking a little time for rest and relaxation too." He started to walk away then paused. "When you get a chance, could you stop by? No hurry, but I want to talk to you about Zabini. I don't know what the fuck his problem is lately but it's like he swallowed a giant draught of incompetence or something and I am not pleased."

"Will do," Nott said and smiled down at his pet, who had turned a shade of bright red that contrasted with the green of her silk dress. "Shall we, my sweet?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled and he laughed again and walked her the rest of the way to the library and pushed open the heavy, oak door. He found a rubber stopper on the floor, a relic of the lost, 'modern' age, and shoved it under the door then checked to make sure it was well and truly braced open. His pet, her hand dropped from his arm as he fussed with the door, stood where he'd left her, head bent down so her hair hung in her face. Her trembling made the stiff silk of her dress rustle. The flogger she'd grabbed was nothing, and she had to know it; after all, she'd been struck by it before. It was being here, being potentially _seen_ that had her aflutter.

And her afluttering had him aching.

He walked over to a bulky, wooden table that was nicely positioned with a view of the door or, more to his immediate plan, with a view of the table _from_ the door. "Here," he said, and pointed. "This side, so you're facing the open door." He paused. "So you can see anyone who happens to walk by and see you as I remind you of the virtue of courtesy."

She positioned herself, bent down over the table and he pulled up the many layers of her rustling skirts. "You can hold these up," he said.

"You aren't going to tie me?" she asked, her voice a tiny squeak in the large room.

"Oh no," he cooed at her. "Let anyone who sees you know you're here of your own volition, that you don't need to be restrained."

He didn't actually think anyone was likely to walk by. Draco Malfoy had been a stroke – he smiled at his own pun – of luck but this late at night most of the staff were not going to be wandering about and Marie was hardly going to blow her cover by going to the library. Zabini – well, he was probably out birding or whatever the fuck he did at night. Could that man be any less interesting? And, of course, however much the idea of being caught at their games made her tremble she wasn't saying no, something she'd surely learned he'd respect after her heeded her request to not have to go on play dates with the other 'ladies'.

She fumbled with her skirts and he helped her get them into her grip and stood back to admire her. A beauty in green silks, bent over the dark wood table with her cheek pressed to its surface, holding her dress up for him so he could beat her. "You," he breathed in utter admiration, "are so beautiful."

She started to say thank you, then suddenly closed her mouth, not sure if she were allowed to speak. He reached a finger down and stroked her and laughed, a low sound that made her flush. "Already eager, dove?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled into the table.

"Now," he said, "I'd like you to count to forty strokes. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir," she said, breathier this time.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione frowned at the book. She wasn't sure why Theodore Nott had handed her this trash, wasn't sure whether he'd been trying to send her a message or just handed her the book he happened to have in his hand. She'd read the whole thing in case there was something he wanted to tell her and, unless he had some secret yearning to join her and Draco for a threesome – a horrifying thought – she'd come to the decision he'd just passed over what amounted to random, trite kink.

Draco was deeply immersed in his paperwork and didn't even acknowledge her when she muttered she was going for a walk. She grabbed the book and headed to the library. There had to be something better there.

. . . . . . . . .

His pet had reached thirty-seven and had started to really struggle to hold her position when Theo Nott looked up to see Helen Evans in the doorway. He smiled at her and struck his angel with an especially hard blow. "Thirty-eight," she whimpered, writhing against the wood. Her eyes were closed by now as she focused on making it to the end, on the sensations holding her in place, and he raised his arm and hit her again as Miss Evans froze in place watching the scene. "Thirty-nine," his pet gasped and Theo watched his little spy waver between running away and charging into rescue the supposed victim.

One more strike and, as she said "forty" his joy opened her eyes with relief and saw Helen Evans, still hovering in the doorway. He could see her body tense when she saw their voyeur, but he just set the flogger on the table and slipped up so he was standing right behind her, pressed into her, and reached his hand down between her legs and started to run his thumb in circles over her, to flick it back and forth in an irregular rhythm that had her shuddering against his hand. "Please," she whispered and he said, with great affection, "Whenever you want, sweetheart.

The permission had no sooner left his lips than she gasped and convulsed against his hand, the watching, horrified Miss Evans consigned to whichever devil would have her.

"I love you," his pet murmured as he pulled her up into his arms and, as her skirts fell back down around her ankles, he said, quite clearly, "I love you too."

That was what finally drove Miss Helen Evans to flee Theo noted with vicious satisfaction.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ – Thank you, everyone, for your ongoing interest in our story of bad people behaving badly. I hope your winter holidays were excellent and that 2015 is a wonderful year for you!_

_Be sure to follow along on our other fics: 'Knowing You', by dulce de leche go and far too many things by Colubrina who lacks self-control and starts too many fics. Plus we both have accounts on twitter, where we avoid our responsibilities and chatter. Colubrina_ and lechegomyeggo _

_Extra special New Year's Eve love to our reviewers: Ash, shealone, luusii, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx (I'm so glad someone besides the authors love Theo.), agomesdance, Meuba, Delancey654, pagyn, Artemis Of The Golden Distaff, Grovek26, qiana, Rose Davis, Calimocho, ladymagna1100, cocis, LadiePhoenix007, JennyFelton, Artemisgodess, Gaeleria, Brightki, _


	19. 18 - Who They Are

Neville handed Blaise Zabini his pain potion; he'd been experimenting with the recipe, trying to find something that would be more effective at dulling the man's pain. With a quick lift of the glass towards him in a mock toast Zabini downed it, then coughed.

"Christ," he muttered, swiping an arm across his mouth, "What did you add this time? Would it be possible for that to taste any _more_ like ass?"

"I probably could make it taste worse, yes," Neville grinned at him. "Should I?"

"Dear Lord, no." Zabini rubbed his forehead and slouched down over the bench. "I'm sorry, I think I'm done for the night."

Neville Longbottom regarded the man bent down and contemplated the future. Wands, magic, and a classically trained and mother-fucking brilliant wizard on their side. It might be enough, he thought, it might actually just be enough to tip the scales.

He thought of Zabini and their progress and, even in light of their fight, he wished he could get Hermione Granger back.

Maybe if she knew they were alive, maybe then she wouldn't be so hopelessly desperate as to cling to the safety she thought she'd found in Malfoy, the safety that maybe she had actually found. Maybe he could get her back before she'd gone so far down the rabbit hole with that rotter she couldn't come home again. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't too late.

A thought itched at the back of his brain, the nagging little thought that no one could ever go home again, that Hermione Granger had well and truly left them and, even if she wanted to, she couldn't come back now.

He squelched that thought.

A man stuck his head into their workspace and said, "Still nothing, sir," and Neville swore.

"'Misbegotten goat-loving daughters of incompetent whores?'" Zabini repeated, brow raised. "Can't you just say 'fuck' like everyone else?"

"Sorry," Neville muttered. "Our top contact at the castle is still silent. She's missed multiple scheduled communication times. I'm worried Nott's gotten at her."

"Not Hermione?" Zabini said, eyeing the other man.

"No," he snorted. "She and Hermione are unaware of each other. Redundancies and all. Hermione went silent a while ago but I know why, thanks to you." Neville's face screwed up at the unpleasant thoughts of Hermione's new pastime but he pressed on with a frown. "Marie…"

"Marie?" Zabini said, drawing the name out. It was a common enough name but… "Plain girl? About yay high?" He held his hand out and Neville narrowed his eyes.

"You know her?"

"Maybe." Zabini began to laugh. "If she's the girl I'm thinking of she sleeps in my room, on my couch, and scrubs my floors. Granger reads these hideous novels out loud to her. I think today's was something like '_Love in the Time of Obliviation_' about some unfortunate girl who lost her memory in the war at the hands of her lover and how they met again in the Dark Lord's service and then had, as far as I could tell, sex in a ridiculously large number of places that would get you murdered out of hand if you actually tried it."

"Listening awfully closely?" Neville asked, smirking and Zabini shuddered.

"You cannot imagine how bad these books are. And really, do you _know_ how many different ways there are to describe a pair of—" Blaise shook his head, swiped a hand over his face and focused, "-the Marie I know is illiterate; it's why I suffer through hearing Granger read these literary atrocities to her."

Neville laughed. "I think you've been suffering for her cover, Blaise. That's the one, and not being able to read is how she gets assigned to clean all sorts of places like, I suspect, your room. She's not a security risk, or so people assume."

"Just… fuck." Zabini looked at the other man and started to laugh. "She's fine, by the way. She was incredibly freaked out the other night about something, wouldn't tell me what but said the culprit was Granger. I suspect whatever Granger said to her scared her out of sending you information but she's totally fine. I left her half-asleep tonight, hiding some pornographic picture book under her pillow."

"Things I didn't need to know." Neville muttered.

"Well, I didn't need to know about what passes for literature for young, bored witches but now, thanks to your spy's cover, I do." He paused. "How the FUCK did I miss that she was the mole?"

"We've been distracting you," Neville said.

"Apparently," Zabini shook his head then looked up in sudden delight. "It worked. Your ass-potion worked! My head's almost totally fine."

"Good," Neville was scrawling a note. "Slip this to Marie, don't let her know you were the conduit."

"Will do." Zabini took the paper, shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. "Just… son of a sheep buggering idiot, I shouldn't have missed that."

"She's good," Neville grinned. "Don't take it personally, Zabini."

"Uh huh. I can't come tomorrow night. Malfoy has cornered me to talk about strategy after dinner, though I suspect what he's really planning on doing is ripping me a new one for not finding the rebels."

Neville choked down a snort. "Good to know. Until the next day?"

Zabini nodded and stomped off to kiss his witch goodbye and find his escort home.

. . . . . . . . . .

It was somewhat frustrating that he couldn't question Helen Evans. That his pet had overheard something about Malfoy's mother was so very interesting; Malfoy had never had the balls to try to do anything about his mother's predicament before and he sensed that something was shifting with the man. Nott had a sneaking suspicion Evans was the catalyst.

Having his pet try to spy on the other two strumpets had proved to be a dead end. They didn't talk in front of her, not really. All they did was upset her. He'd finally gotten his lovely wonder to share every detail of what those harpies had said to her and, well, that Marie girl had been properly chastised but not Evans.

Marie hadn't been especially hard on his angel so he did feel that score was quite settled. Plus, of course, having the wretched thing settled in Zabini's quarters, trusted, reading his mail, available for questioning any time he wanted, that was worth keeping her alive. Evans, however, he was quite displeased with her. The moment – _the very moment _– Malfoy withdrew his protection she was dead.

Well, Theodore Nott mused, he might let several moments go by. Days, even. He anticipated that was going to a true pleasure, and pleasures should be savored.

Still, the real thing to think about here was Malfoy. He obviously trusted 'Evans' enough to share information about his mother and he was planning something.

Nott wondered if he planned to actually free dear Narcissa.

That would shift all the pieces, wouldn't it? A Malfoy without a choke collar on became a wholly different creature. He became a creature worth cultivating.

It wasn't, after all, that Theodore Nott disliked the Dark Lord or his regime; it was that he suspected he could manage things better. Almost no one really cared who the top players were, not really. The staff would go on generating reports, the soldiers would go on fighting the rebels and enslaving the Muggles, the aristocrats would go on having parties and jockeying for their mid-level positions over expensive canapés. Swap out one dictator for another and the only people really affected would be the inner circle. And how Nott longed to be a part of that elite; he longed for that enough to work with Draco Malfoy, longed for that enough to put Malfoy into power. Hell, he'd prefer Malfoy on the throne; let Malfoy be the target of the assassination attempts. Sometimes – most of the time – it was better to be the man standing _next_ to the king than to be the king himself.

He longed for that kind of power enough to tolerate even 'Evans.'

It all depended on the mother, though. As long as Narcissa was a hostage, the current regime held Malfoy's leash. Free the mother, free the man. Or Nott mused, move his leash to another, subtler hand.

He suspected the new leash was the girl.

If he controlled the girl, in all her frizzy haired hideousness, he'd also control Malfoy. But he'd have to be careful and he'd have to be much _much _subtler than the Dark Lord. None of this 'do what I say or I kill the hostage' nonsense; Malfoy, having freed himself from that trap once, wasn't likely to be stupid enough to tolerate it again. Still, you could control people with chains they never noticed as long as you paid attention. He'd been paying attention to Malfoy's little toy for a while now.

Dysentery. Snippy, self-righteous prattle. And, of course, the otter necklace.

If he were going to control Malfoy he'd have to hold back on his absolute need to punish that chit for abusing his pet. He'd have to be willing to encourage or at least tolerate things, at least for a while, that he despised.

Because he had a good idea who 'Evans' really was.

And wasn't _that_ interesting.

**. . . . . . . . .**

Hermione pulled on the heavy moth-eaten coat with a sour look on her face, one that made Draco chuckle from his position on the bed.

He was looking up from lacing some standard issue, grimy, scuffed, and tattered boots when he spoke, "And these are in _good_ condition if you can believe it."

"They smell like they've been in someone's attic for a score of years - " She sniffed again. " - Or five." Stepping into her own set of boots, she took a look at herself in the long mirror in the corner. "Looks like it too."

Draco shrugged and smirked, though it was a tight look, masking his nerves. "Of the things the Dark Lord cares about, taking care of his regular soldiers isn't actually very high on the list. I don't allow mine to look nearly as shabby as this, but others aren't as strict or careful. Something you may have noticed during your stay here before." His smirk turned more genuine when he caught what appeared to be a short look of fondness; she was smart enough, had spent enough time on the battlefield, to appreciate a commander who took care of his men.

It really was one of the Dark Lord's weaknesses. You _always_ took care of your men. Draco Malfoy might slaughter other people's soldiers with brutal indifference but his own team knew he looked after them; they had food, warm clothes in good condition, excellent gear. They'd follow him into hell.

Hermione smoothed her hands over her trousers, fiddling with the wand holster on her leg to make sure she was able to draw effectively when she saw Draco's reflection come into view behind her. She caught his eyes and smiled. "Are you ready?"

He took in and blew out a deep breath. "Truthfully? No."

One of his hands came up to rest on her shoulder and she stroked his knuckles soothingly. "We'll be fine, Draco. We've been planning for weeks. We'll be in, out, and home before you know it," she said reassuringly.

An eyebrow ticked up along with an amused smile. "Home?"

Her smile faltered and the tops of her cheeks flushed a bit before it came back as though it never left. "Back," she amended. "We'll be back."

Draco nodded and leaned in to press a kiss to her temple before handing her a vile of a foul looking brownish liquid.

Hermione grimaced and took the potion in hand. "Centuries of magic and they still haven't concocted a way for these potions to not taste like shite." She drew the vial closer, frown deepening the closer the murky liquid came to her lips and she gagged at the smell. "Who did you get the hairs from for this batch?"

She was too busy making faces to notice his expression as he thought of the soldiers he'd intercepted and killed at one of their transfer checkpoints to the manor house days ago. He pressed another kiss to her temple and stroked a hand over the mess of bushy curls that was soon to be nothing but a mess of limp and dreary red locks. "Come on," he avoided answering, "we've got to run."

The witch nodded and plugged her nose before muttering, "I think you'll owe me for drinking this alone."

He laughed. "Whatever you want, love, when we get back _home_."

. . . . . . . . . . .

A perfect plan.

The intelligence they'd been waiting on had come, the potions and components he needed had arrived, winter had finally turned to spring and it was the first clear, rain free evening in days; everything was in place and it was perfect.

While his trusted contacts outside his own team were few, they were loyal... well, as loyal as someone threatened with terrible, horrible things could be. Draco Malfoy had power, and money, and a history of making people, particularly loved ones, disappear. After all, he knew the effectiveness of such tactics, knew them far too well. If that's what it took to get his mother safely away from a monster leaps and bounds worse than he, well, then that's the tactic he would use.

Hermione had come up with the details of their perfect plan.

Use Polyjuice to get into the manor house where Narcissa was kept, and, while disguised as new members of the guard staff, locate her suite. One maid would be disguised as Narcissa thanks to more Polyjuice, a healthy dose of obliviation, some implanted memories, and a little imperius, courtesy of Draco. By the time the magic wore off the three of them should be safely away and portkeying to a safe house in France.

Draco had opted not to tell Hermione about the slow acting poison he would leave with the actress standing in for his mother, nor the imperiused instructions for all the maids to grossly disfigure themselves. He wanted people to find his 'mother', tragically dead after being attacked by a traitorous zealot who'd snuck into the manor; it would be tidier that way. However, as cunning as she was, Hermione still had some weaknesses and knowing he cold-bloodedly planned to have all the maids kill themselves in some fairly grotesque ways, well, that would make her hesitate, make her feel guilty and worried and he couldn't afford that.

His father had always protected his mother from the details of his exploits; he would do the same for his witch.

It was a perfect plan, truly.

It was a shame it didn't work.

It was a shame that people who sold their loyalty could be bought by a higher bidder.

It was, indeed, also a shame that some people still managed to have deeper pockets than the Malfoys and that everyone was still in this circus for their own gain.

The Polyjuice worked…for all of the ten minutes it took to get in and get past the older and mildly wiser guards to their stations near Narcissa's rooms.

Draco had been leery of the brew when it had arrived for no other reason than he barely trusted anyone, even if he'd bought their obedience. He'd gone through all the roundabout channels and used all the tricks Hermione had shown him for navigating such a well monitored and guarded grapevine and still managed to requisition more of the potion than he actually needed.

He was no novice when it came to potions and he'd examined the batch for all sorts of evidence of poison or foul play and even tested some of what he'd received on one of the staff that wouldn't be missed after he disposed of them, which he did, and everything had checked out; he certainly wouldn't have drunk it or allowed Hermione to drink it if he'd suspected it to be useless or dangerous.

Of course, he'd just assumed that all of the vials he'd received were of the same brew – rookie mistake, one he'd curse at himself for later.

If they had been, the hour plus of uptime he'd gotten on the bit he'd tested would have been more than plenty. As it stood now, if they actually made it out of there he would retrace his steps through that old grapevine and find the sad excuse for the potioneer that made this pathetic crap and rid the world of a waste of breath.

"Come!" Hermione hissed behind her, peering around the corner from the room they'd had to escape into when their disguises had started to fail. It was bad enough that they had to rush through their explanation of why they'd arrived so late to their new assignment without their faces starting to bubble and change in front of the man in charge.

A mix up with the coordinates, they'd said, and the man had snorted and let them in after a quick perusal of their papers. Draco had been appalled that such a thing seemed to happen often enough outside his outfit that the man paid it little mind, relieved that he didn't grill them any further, and insulted that _this_ was the security placed around his mother. If he'd known how incompetent they were all this time he would have attempted her rescue a long time ago.

Draco muttered a spell and levitated the body of the patrolling guard they'd happened across shortly after the first failed part of their "perfect plan" out of their way. He gripped his wand, taking up at her back and had a look down the opposite end of the hall. "Which way?" he asked, expecting her to reference the map he'd obtained.

She looked over her shoulder, out the window of their hiding spot and studied what she could make out of their placement. Her eyes narrowed at the sun where it was setting in the distance and the thoughts running through her mind were plain as the nose on her face.

Hermione nodded towards the hall again and to her right. "It should be there. Straight, down past the second cross section. Another right and then one of the last two rooms on the northern wall."

Her concentration was focused out towards their ultimate goal and his own was settled on her, eying her half in skepticism and half amazement. "You're sure, Granger? You don't need to look at the map?"

"I burned the map," she said simply and something resembling a disgruntled noise rumbled out of him; she scoffed and blinked back at him. "I memorized Intermediate and Advanced Transfiguration from cover to cover long before they were relevant for _fun,_ Draco. I can commit a mess of bloody line drawings for a three story manor to memory without breaking a sweat. Besides, all the times Har—" she faltered and then was looking forward again with a tight jaw and a look that was far too composed, "—all the times we'd ever gotten into trouble, there'd always been a map, or a cloak, or something too obvious sitting, laying around. So I burned it."

Draco was staring at her still, though this time it was a different, much more pleased, look in his eyes. "Lead the way."

As soon as the words slipped off his tongue, they were off. The distance wasn't far and there were insultingly few overlapping patrols to dodge down the halls to his mother's bedroom and study. The easier he realized their path actually was, the more irate he actually became. Played for a fool he'd been, led to believe that her prison was a veritable fortress and instead, all that traveled the halls were a bumbling set of idiots with moderate competency in the Dark Arts.

Barely moderate.

"Here," Hermione said sharply, pulling him out of his head and pressing flat along the wall next to what should've been Narcissa's bedroom. With a quick alohamora the latch was unlocked and she shoved open the door, had a quick look around, but found the room dark and empty. The witch cursed, jerked her head toward the one next door. "Not here. Try that one."

Draco sneered at the state of their plans thus far, but whispered his own spell to unlock the door next to him. All the tension that had been building, all the nerve wracking anxiety that'd been bubbling up and commanding his insides to do flips and flops and all sorts of acrobatics, eased _just a little_ at the sight of the older woman so casually seated in her posh looking chair, bent over a mahogany desk, reading.

"Mother," he exhaled roughly.

"What are you doing here?" Narcissa looked up, startled, from her writing desk and studied Draco. Her expression became much less friendly when she spotted Hermione coming into view behind his shoulder. "What," she asked, "are you doing here with the likes of her?"

"I don't believe you've met Miss Evans before, mother," Draco said with rushed formality. "Do you have shoes on? Good, come with us."

Narcissa looked at her son as if he'd suddenly lost all his wits. "I'd know that filthy mudblood anywhere. How dare you bring her into my presence like this?" The woman screwed up her face and looked down her nose, an impressive bit of body language given he towered above her even when she wasn't sitting. "I realize your job is stressful and a man has his needs but please do not bring your trash when you come to visit me."

"Stand up," Draco said, his tone shifting from courteous son to that of the vicious and feared commander. "We're leaving. Miss Evans is here to assist. Try to contain your feelings on the matter until we're safely away."

He looked at Hermione, who'd been waiting in the doorway, wand drawn. If she'd been affected by his mother's venom towards her blood status, it didn't show. "Where is the stand-in?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?" he snapped.

"I _mean_ they aren't here on schedule and now we need to move before they find the guard we left back there," Hermione snapped back testily – another bloody part of the plan that'd gone to pot. "I'll destroy the room to - "

"Do you really let her speak to you like that?" Narcissa still hadn't stood up and Draco took two steps towards her, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

"Do that," Draco said to Hermione. He looked at the maids who were suddenly entering the room. "Look," he remarked dryly, "bodies. How convenient. Burn them beyond all recognition and maybe we'll get lucky and people will assume one of them is hers."

He dragged his mother towards the door and, once Narcissa was out of the line of fire, Hermione began striking down the women filling the room. They'd been confused at first, shocked at second, and shrieking in a fierce panic at third. Employed as spies, none of them really knew how to fight and Draco took a moment to appreciate the efficient grace with which his witch took down half a dozen opponents and set the room alight before they'd been able to tear back out. He'd never heard one of the curses she used before; he'd have to ask her about it when this was all over. Take a swot who loves research, he thought, and put her in a war and of course she put down _Hogwarts: A History_ and pick up something more along the lines of _Advanced Offensive Dark Magic_.

Her face was stony, much of her conscious thought having retreated back into a compartment within her mind where it would go - where he knew it _had_ to have gone – just like before, when she'd disappeared through the smoke and ash at school so many years ago. It was a place that held nothing of 'what were their names', 'did they have a family', 'will anyone miss them' and only saw them as objects to knock aside towards her goal.

God, he'd come to adore her.

Brilliant, pragmatic, cunning. She was everything he'd dreamed she'd be and now that he had her away from those ridiculously noble and gooey friends of hers he was never letting her go. How he'd loved watching her try to play him after he'd found her, bargaining with what little she had to make her life bearable, doing her best to ensnare him while keeping herself unattached. It had impressed the hell out of him, not to mention turned him on. _Oh_, how it had turned him on.

Of course, he hadn't expected her snare to actually work. He hadn't expected to care whether she really wanted him, really liked him.

Really loved him.

He wondered if she did. She'd just slaughtered six strangers for him and if that weren't love...

Putting those thoughts into the back of his mind for now, he strode off down the hall, still gripping his mother by the arm, when the conflagration drew the attention of the guards, the real actually-worth-their-salt guards.

"Come ON," he yelled back at Hermione and, for once, she did as she was told and hurried after him.

Hermione ran after Draco, not even sparing time to glance behind her at the blazing room. They'd created too much of a commotion and she could almost feel the guards bearing down on them already. Draco was taking out anyone who approached him from the front while continuing to haul his mother – who seemed to be keeping up a monologue about unsuitable companions not becoming acceptable simply because it was wartime – down the corridor. Hermione glanced down at one of the men he'd killed, bleeding at her feet, and barely blinked as she stepped over him. He would have killed her if he hadn't recognized her, captured her if he had. She'd long ago stopped feeling any pity for people on the other side of the war. They weren't people, just obstacles.

So far still nothing behind them.

She heard Draco swear, something short and creative, and a quick scan told her why. One of the guards had hit Narcissa with something and the woman had staggered and was clutching her side. Hermione knew, knew from bitter experience, what that curse was. It wasn't dangerous, the woman would be fine, but she'd be barely able to walk for several hours. Death Eaters liked to use it to slow down their opponents so they could 'play' with them.

Draco picked Narcissa up and kept moving but the additional burden slowed even him down and they couldn't afford to be slowed down, not if they were going to make it out. The edge of the wards weren't far but they were far enough.

"Draco, move it along," Hermione hissed.

He looked back and she was shocked to see not the brutal visage of the feared commander but the haunted face of a schoolboy afraid for his mother. Just… fuck. He was cracking. "Move it," she snapped again, louder than the urgent thrumming of blood in her ears. "You know the route. Just take it. Shoot anything in your path, I'll cover the rear."

She'd forgotten how alive she felt on a battlefield. How everything seemed to slow down, how emotion fell away and she was just a body making one logical, simple decision after another. No fretting, no anxiety, no worry about consequences. Just life in the utter now.

She'd forgotten how much she loved it.

She'd forgotten how much she hated that she loved it.

Draco listened to her and moved more quickly, leading them along their preciously scouted path. Turn after turn, then a straightaway, then another turn. They both had the place memorized for the escape at least, and even though she could hear noises behind them getting louder they moved fluidly. Hermione watched for the inevitable burst of guards behind them and Draco took out the hapless castle staff that had the bad luck to be in their way but they moved, as a unit, as a pair, as a team.

He ran and he ran and he ran because they just needed to get past the wards so they could activate the portkey and deliver Narcissa, bitch extraordinaire and Draco's beloved mother, to freedom. When she was free, Hermione thought, Draco would be free as well.

They were nearly there. Out of the castle, across the field, just a little further to go to reach the edge. So _close_.

Nearly there, of course, wasn't good enough. So close wasn't close enough.

It was just a handful of men who caught up to them, men with heaving chests and very _very_ angry faces. Men who were now in wand range, men who clearly were the best force this manor had to offer. Let Narcissa Malfoy escape and they'd all die and they knew it; they had nothing to lose. Hermione looked, despair catching her for a moment, at their goal. Just a few dozen meters.

Her heart hammered as reality pressed down on her shoulders. They weren't going to make it.

And they'd been so close.

_No._

'Close' was never enough.

'Almost' had _**never**_ been acceptable to Hermione Granger.

With a snarl, she whipped her wand over her head, swishing it through the air at the oncoming men who'd raised their own wands at this point for attack. A quick incantation, a flick of the wrist and the ground beneath their feet was transfigured into thick, sludgy mud; what followed was a series of disgusted cries. Hermione allowed herself a quick grin, eyes forward again to see Draco half turned with his mother clinging to his neck, to check her progress. He'd spared her a smirk and she found herself smiling back.

A wrath filled, hoarse cry from behind them shattered the moment's peace.

"_Deleam carnem!"_

Hermione whirled back to see one of the soldiers cease his struggling to snarl the unfamiliar spell in their direction. The wizard's gnarled wand flung forward in the direction of the fleeing pair, a menacing looking violet light soaring with great speed toward the weakened woman in his arms.

Her mind whirred, trying to make sense, trying to figure the curse that was heading their way.

_Carnem...flesh?_

_...deleam...deleam..._

Her eyes widened and everything ticked by in a set of very slow seconds.

The light was speeding closer, only now did Draco even seem to realize, he wouldn't be able to move, not in time, not himself, nor his mother and she hadn't enough time to jump in front and erect a shield.

She caught his gray eyes, also wide and as shocked as she'd ever seen them. They seemed to see something on her face that she'd only just begun thinking and were pleading with her in a way she'd never thought to see cast in her direction. They said _no_ and _don't_.

It only solidified her decision.

Hermione dug in her toe, pivoting in a spin, a rueful thought surfacing about those ballet lessons finally coming into play in practical life...right before her flesh began to _burn_.

The shrill cry ripped itself from her throat as though a thousand crucios were wracking her body at once, all starting in her legs where the curse hit. All her nerve endings flared to life, knees gave out, and the moment her palms hit the dirt she expelled her lunch and something much, _much_ darker along with it. Tremors rippled through her frame and she barely registered rolling onto her back and seeing the damage of the curse working its way up her body.

Her borrowed clothing was frayed and peeling away from her body like it was caught in a fire she couldn't see. It blackened and disintegrated until she could see that same black char spreading across the surface of her legs. It spidered out from the source like cracks in plaster until the once lightly tanned skin was melting and sloughing away to pool around her body writhing in the dirt. Skin fell away, exposing the wet, red, raw layers of flesh to the air and igniting another round of horrific wails. She thrashed and seized, unable to stop the spasms and convulsions rocking her frame, and the mud clung to the slick, oozing, and exposed bits of her body, pulling a series of screams so fast and wretched from her, they blurred together into one never ending howl of pain that filled the night.

She heard more voices – barely – over her own cries, there were more footfalls. Things were happening. Things she couldn't see past the blackening vision and all she could do was thank whatever powers that so blissfully pulled her into the darkness, her own screams still echoing in her ears.


End file.
